drop the hand of the tall, strange man and run up the steps, and when they all were standing around her in the library, looking a little grave.
"Phil—Phil!" Kirk was saying then. "Oh, aren't you glad to see me at all? It's me—oh, Phil!"
His eager hands sought her face, to be sure it was she, so strange and quiet.
"Just a minute, lamb," she heard Ken say, with a hand on Kirk's shoulder. "Phil doesn't feel quite right."
Then warm, delicious life rushed over her, and she could move again and fling her trembling arms around Kirk. She and Ken and the Maestro all managed to embrace Kirk at once, so that they embraced each other, too. And Ken was not ashamed of his tears, nor was the Maestro.
The ex-mate of the Celestine stood discreetly on the terrace, whistling to himself. But he was not whistling the song about his hat. No, it was a little plaintive air, dimly familiar, Ken thought. Where had he heard it before? And why was the Maestro straightening with a stricken face, from Kirk?
