ng of the half-submerged bunco-steerer. Instead of that, both
his look and his tone carried some tinge of quiet yet dominant
gentility, reminding her, as she had so often been taught before, that
the criminal is not a type in himself, that only fanciful and
far-stretched generalizations could detach him as a species, or immure
and mark him off from the rest of his kind.

She glanced at him still again, at the seemingly melancholic and
contemplative face, that strangely reminded her of Duerer's portrait of
himself. As she did so there was carried to her memory, and imprinted
on it, the picture of a wistful and lonely man, his countenance
touched, for all its open Irish smile, with some wordless sorrow, some
pensive isolation of soul, lean and gaunt with some undefined hunger, a
little furtive and covert with some half-concealed restlessness.

"Aren't you an American?" he was asking, almost hopefully, it seemed to
her.

"Oh, no," she answered, with her sober, slow smile. "I'm an
Englishwoman!"

He shook his head, whimsically.

"Indeed, I'm sorry for that!" said the Celt.

She joined in his laugh.

"But I've lived abroad so much!" she added.

"Then you must know Italy pretty well, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes; I've traveled here, winter after winter."

She picked out a card from her pocket-book, on which was inscribed, in
Spencerian definiteness of black and white, "Miss Barbara Allen." It
had been the card of Lady Boxspur's eminently respectable maid--and
Frances Durkin had saved it for just such a contingency.

He read the name, slowly, and then placed the card in his vest pocket.
If he noticed her smile, he gave no sign of it.

"And you like Genoa? I mean, _is_ there anything to like in this
place?" he asked companionably. "I'll be hanged if I've seen anything
but a few million mementoes of Christopher Columbus!"

"There's the Palazzo Bianco, and the Palazzo Rosso, and, of course,
there's the Campo Santo!"

"But who cares for graveyards?"

"All Europe is a graveyard, of its past!" she answered lightly. "That
was what I thought you Americans always came to see!"

He laughed a little, in turn, and she both liked him better for it and
found it easier to go on. She felt, from his silences, that no great
span of his life had been spent in talking with women. And she was
glad of it.

"I like the Riggi," she added pregnantly.

"The Riggi--what's that, please?"

"That's the restaurant up on the hill."