Again he turned to his companion, trying to curb his excitement. "What was their name?" he asked.
The woman opened her lips to speak, then stopped. "That is odd," she said. "I supposed that I always thought of them by name; I was just going to speak it and then," with a light laugh, "it didn’t come. I shall think of it in a moment. Wait. It was—. It was—. Let me see. It began with an A. No—. Yes—. I think it began with an A. Oh, well, I can't recall it now. I'll tell you when it comes to me. There's no hurry, is there?"
"Yes, there is, there is!" said the man vehemently. "I want to know the name."
The woman put up her head. "Then you will have to go to the office and ask; I can't remember. What in the world is there so exciting about them, anyway?" The woman was not accustomed to sharing attention with anyone, least of all with a mere photograph.
The man got up, dumped the basket of prints into the chair, and started across the lawn, under the banyan tree, toward the hotel entrance.
The woman looked after him and then at the basket. Then she arose quietly, placed the box of red seeds upon her own chair, picked up the photograph from the basket and followed him into the hotel. At the desk she found him sputtering. The quiet, efficient, Chinese clerk was unable to recall the persons whom he described. "There are so many coming and going all the time," he explained, shaking his head and spreading his hands deprecatingly.
The man began to sputter again, whereat the woman approached and laid the print upon the desk. "What was their name, Ah Fat?" she asked.
"Ooh—oh, yes!" The clerk smiled with recognition. "Why, that was Mr. and Mrs. — ah-h-h—" tapping the desk impatiently with his pencil; "Mr. and Mrs.—. Wait, its' here on the register. They came here about—let me see—about the middle of March. Let—me—see—" fluttering the leaves of the register and running his finger down the columns.
The man fidgeted, the woman wrinkled her brow in thought, pressing a loop of the wili-wili seeds against her lips. The man glanced at her and turned his face away.
"That’s queer," said the clerk; "I don’t find the name. I'd know it if I saw it," and he turned the pages back again, doubtfully. "I wonder what boat they came on."
"They came from the Orient," said the woman.
"Yes. Then they came in on the—on the—" and he turned to the schedule of the March boats from the Orient. "They must have come on the Korea." And then to the register again: "Here are the Korea people: Foster, Martin, Cudahy, Abercrombie—. Now what is this name?" bending closer, "I can't make out the writing."
The woman leaned forward. "Tourtillotte. No, those were not the ones; I remember the Tourtillottes."
The clerk's finger continued on down the column, to no purpose; then he called the Number One bell-boy. "Ming, what was the name of these people?" holding up the photograph.
The boy shook his head. "Don't remember."
The man turned upon him. "Then think. Try." He rattled the silver in his pocket and the China boy's face took on an expression of real effort—vain effort, it was evident.
"What room did they have?" asked the clerk.
Again the boy shook his head. "I think second floor—no, third floor—312 maybe. I don’t know."
"You remember them, don't you?" asked the woman, impatiently.
