quickly and saw that the man with the knot of hair had followed him. Then Strawbridge realized that not only would he have to go to the policeman, but he would have to inquire for the actual address in order to maintain an appearance of innocence. Right here he lost his order I He damned his luck unhappily and was on the verge of crossing the street, when the man with the knob of hair continued their conversation, in the same low tone they had used:
“By the way, señor, I just happened to recall an errand of my own at the address you inquired for, if you care to go along with me.”
“Why, sure!” accepted Strawbridge, vastly relieved. He drew out a silk handkerchief and touched the moisture on his face. “Sure! Be glad to have your company.”
The man began tinkling again.
“I suppose you are going to… er… to the house with the blue front?” He lifted his eyebrows slightly.
“I'm looking for Number… I never was there before, so I don't know what color the house is.”
“No?” The guitarist lifted his brows still more. He seemed really surprised. But the next moment his attention broke away. He smote his guitar to a purpose, and broke out in a bold tenor voice:
“Thine eyes are cold, thine eyes are cold to me.
Would I could kindle in their depths a flame.
I bring my heart, a bold torero's heart to thee.”
The American was startled at this sudden outbreak of song, but no one else took any notice of it. That is, no one except a girl inside a barred window, who dropped a rose through the grille and withdrew. As the two men passed this spot, the singer stooped for the flower and in a shaken voice murmured into the window, “Little heaven!” and somewhere inside a girl laughed.
