Pinkerton arrested him with a savage snort.
"You are usually merely frivolous, Sayre; but to-day you are silly."
Without manifest offense, Sayre went on: "When I was out here in 1890—"
"The story of the Pink Geisha?"
"Well—yes," admitted Sayre, patiently.
"Excuse me, then, till you are through." He turned to go below.
"Heard it, have you?"
"A thousand times—from you and others."
Sayre laughed good-naturedly at the gallant exaggeration, and passed Pinkerton his cigarette-case.
"Ah—ever heard who the man was?"
"No." He lighted his cigarette. "That has been your own little mystery—apparently."
"Apparently?"
"Yes; we all knew it was yourself."
"It was n't," said Sayre, steadily. "It was my brother." He looked away.
"Oh!"
"He 's dead."
"Beg pardon. You never told us that."
"He went back; could n't find her."
