He ate his supper almost mechanically, in spite of his hunger, for his
mind was deep in the mysterious problem which confronted him. Half a
dozen times he broke in upon his thoughts to glance at the girl at the
opposite table. Once he was sure that she had been looking at him and
that she had turned just in time to keep her face from him. Philip
admired pretty women, and of all beauty in woman he loved beautiful
hair, so that more and more frequently his eyes traveled to the shining
wealth of copper-colored tresses near him. He had almost finished his
supper when a movement at the other table drew his eyes up squarely, and
his heart gave a sudden jump. The girl had risen. She was facing him,
and as for an instant their eyes met she hesitated, as if she were on
the point of speaking. In that moment he recognized her.
It was the girl in the photograph, older, more beautiful--the same soft,
sweet contour of face, the same dark eyes that had looked at him in
MacGregor's office, filled with an indescribable sadness now, instead of
the laughing joy of girlhood. In another moment he would have responded
to her hesitation, to the pathetic tremble of her lips, but before words
could form themselves she had turned and was gone. And yet at the door,
even as she disappeared, he saw her face turned to him again,
pleadingly, entreatingly, as if she knew his mission and sent to him a
silent prayer for mercy.
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