In short, Jimmy and I sailed for home, a fortnight later, utterly
beaten.
Now I'm telling the story in my own way. A novelist, who knew how to
work it, would (I'm pretty sure) keep up the mystery just about here.
But I'm going to put in what happened, though I didn't hear about it
until two years later.
What happened was that, one evening, Jack drove Farrell too far, and
over a trifle. Without knowing it, too, he had been teaching Farrell
to learn cunning. They were back in New York and (it seems almost
too silly to repeat) seated in a restaurant, ordering dinner.
Jack held the _carte du jour_: the waiter was at his elbow; Farrell
sat opposite, waiting. For some twenty-four hours--that is, since
their return to New York City--Jack had chosen to be talkative.
Farrell was even encouraged to hope that he had broken the spell of
his hatred, and that the next boat for England might carry them home
in company and forgiving. Just then the devil put it into Jack to
resume his torture. He laid down the card and sat silent, the waiter
still at his elbow.
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