Blue Fire

He saw her almost at once. In spite of the confusion spilled across the South Side tracks, where there had been a minor collision, she was easy to spot. A chap at the Chicago Bulletin had said she was out on a job and had mentioned the accident. If the need was urgent, she could be found there. “Look for a half pint of girl with a full quart of camera,” he had directed. The urgency was not that extreme, but Dirk had come nevertheless, with a curious wish to see her unguarded at work in her own environment.

The August afternoon had turned drizzling dark and this was not a section of Chicago that set its best foot forward. Gray was the predominant key for mist-blurred trains and tracks and milling people, for the sky and the lake and nearby buildings. Despite the soupy murk, he found her easily, hopping around through the crowd like a lively sparrow, pausing for a camera shot here, ducking out of the way of an ambulance attendant there, her orange scarf a tongue of flame that made its wearer easy to follow. Her hair was tucked under a shapeless brown beret, a trench coat engulfed her slight person, and flat-heeled loafers carried her in agile leaps as she searched for suitable camera angles.

Dirk lighted a cigarette in the shelter of a tilted boxcar and watched with a mingling of amusement and interest. The accident was apparently not serious, so she should be through with her duties soon. No need to get on with it immediately—he would bide his time.

Strange that he should remember so clearly the last time he had seen her. She had been seven and he sixteen. That morning she had been clambering about on an arm of rocks that thrust out across the sand of Camp’s Bay at the other end of the world. She had held a camera in her hands that day too—a child’s box camera. And she had insisted on taking his picture. Perhaps he remembered that long-ago morning at the Cape Peninsula so well because no one since that time had ever regarded him with the same warm adoration that little Susan van Pelt had shown toward a somewhat uncertain young man of sixteen.

He continued to watch the girl with the camera, wondering what his best approach might be. Perhaps he’d better not tell her at once who had sent him here, or why.

Having taken her fill of pictures, the grown-up Susan swung her equipment over her shoulder and started toward him across the tracks. She still moved with the news photographer’s watchful eye for an unexpected picture, so that she did not look too carefully at the rails and crossties under her feet. The toe of one small brown loafer caught in stepping over a rail and she went sprawling before Dirk could spring forward to catch her. It was an ugly fall, but she was up before he reached her, looking first to the safety of her camera.

To Dirk her anxiety, her look of near fright as she turned the camera about, examining it for injury, seemed a bit extreme. Probably it was borrowed from her paper and expensive to replace in case of serious damage. Only when she had made sure that the bulky camera had received no hurt did she pull up her plaid skirt to examine the bloody smear across one knee, where cinders had torn stocking and flesh.

“Ouch!” she said. And then more gently as if in afterthought, “Damn!”

Dirk hid his amusement at such hesitant profanity and stepped to her side. “That was a nasty spill. May I help? Let me take that camera and get you out of here.”

The odd, trembling fear was fading and the look she gave him was straight and clear, her brown eyes enormous in her small, pointed face. A faint sense of shock went unexpectedly through him. She had been a homely little thing, with freckles on her nose and eyes too big for her size when he had first known her. She was not pretty now, but here was a face to arrest a man and make him look again. There was still a shadow of freckles and the mouth was generous and mobile. In the bulky trench coat her figure was invisible, but her ankles were good and small boned, her wrists fragile for the load of that heavy camera. Her mother had been a small woman too, he remembered—an American, and something of a scatterbrain.

She resisted when he tried to take her camera, but accepted the help of his arm, limping for a few steps until she forced herself to walk steadily.

“I’m all right,” she said. “I’ve got to get these plates back to the paper right away.” Her accent was wholly American. There was no trace of English or Afrikaans left in it.

“Let me take you there,” he said. “We can find a cab on the next street. Think you can walk that far?”

“I can walk,” she assured him, and her gaze came wonderingly back to his face. The brown eyes, hazel flecked, searched puzzled for an answer. “I know you, don’t I? I’ve met you somewhere?”

They had reached the sidewalk and he raised a finger to a cruising taxi, postponing a reply. The girl hesitated only a moment and then got in when he opened the door. As the cab headed north, she dabbed gingerly at her raw knee with a handkerchief. Then she pulled off the ugly beret and ran a hand through her cropped hair. He started at the sight. Strange that he had remembered her eyes and forgotten her hair. It was a bright color, just short of a true auburn, but with fire in the chestnut. She wore it shorter than he liked. She must be persuaded to let it grow, he thought, as if it were ordained that he should influence her life.

“Tell me where we’ve met,” she persisted, studying him again.

The cab was following Michigan Avenue now, and luxury shops rimmed the boulevard like shining beads on a gray thread. In the tall buildings ahead lights gleamed in a thousand windows, brightening the mist with their glow.

“I’ll give you a hint,” he told her. “Can you picture a wide beach with very white sand and a piling up of big flat rocks cutting out toward the sea? Can you remember a line of peaks leaning all one way and repeating themselves against the sky?”

She gasped and one hand flew to her lips. “The Twelve Apostles! South Africa, of course. And you’re Dirk—Dirk Hohenfield!”

“So you do remember,” he said, a little surprised at his own pleasure.

Her eyes danced into eager life. “Remember? Of course I remember! How could I not? I was madly in love with you then. You were a smattering of all my heroes rolled into one, including Paul Kruger and Cecil Rhodes.”

A faint smile curled her lips and he had an odd wish to see her smile with gaiety, to laugh aloud. Her face was not a gay one in repose.

He took her hand, the left one, and pulled off the worn pigskin glove. At least there was no ring on the third finger. That should make the old man’s wishes a bit easier to gratify.

“You slapped me with this hand once,” he reminded her. “I can remember how surprised I was that such a little girl could slap so hard. Your right hand was holding a doll, I believe.”

“I remember too,” she said. “You hurt my feelings. You made fun of my dear Marietjie and I had to make you think I hated you.”

“But you didn’t.” He spoke with confidence. She, at least, had never sensed his uncertainties, or the resentments of a brooding, sensitive boy. “What a funny little scamp you were. I liked playing hero for you, even if I didn’t deserve to have you feel that way.”

She withdrew her fingers and unwound the orange scarf from about her neck as if she sought some occupation for her hands. The elusive smile had vanished.

“Did my father send you for me?” she asked directly, and the gentleness was gone from her voice and manner.

“I’m on a combination business trip and holiday,” he told her, but she would have none of that.

“If he sent you for me, the answer is still no. I’m twenty-three now. I hadn’t heard from him for sixteen years until he wrote recently, following my mother’s death. I don’t know him. I don’t want to know him.”

“We must talk about that,” he said. “Will you let me come to see you? For my own pleasure,” he added hastily as he saw refusal coming. “This evening, perhaps? Will you have dinner with me?”

The hint of resistance melted and she relaxed in the seat beside him. “I should have known who you were the moment I heard you speak. I haven’t heard the accent of South Africa in years, yet every word comes back to me.”

“I’m no South African by birth,” he reminded her quickly.

She nodded. “Yes, I know. Your father was German, wasn’t he?” In spite of himself he stiffened, and she must have sensed his withdrawal.

“Why don’t you come to my place tonight?” she asked. “I’ll fix supper for you, if you like. It will be easier to talk than in a restaurant. Have you been in Cape Town lately?”

“I live there now,” he said. “I work for your father, Niklaas van Pelt.”

The cab had stopped for a red light that halted the wide stream of Michigan Avenue traffic. The bridge was just ahead, with the Near North Side beyond. They were almost there.

“He must be terribly old—my father,” she said. “In his seventies? He was close to fifty when he married my mother. She was young—too young for him.” The girl turned her direct look upon Dirk. “How did he learn that Mother had died? He’s never shown any interest in us before. How would he hear?”

“Your father has friends in America,” Dirk told her casually. He must be careful now, make no slip about the letter which had alerted the old man to his wife’s approaching death. It was clear that the girl knew nothing of her mother’s letter.

Susan seemed to consider his words, neither completely accepting nor denying.

“He hurt her so much,” she went on, her tone youthfully bitter. “My mother was sweet and gay and fun-loving. I can still remember the cold way he treated her when he didn’t approve of her frivolity. He broke her heart—and her spirit too. That’s why she ran away from South Africa and took me with her.”

Dirk watched the cars slipping past, not looking at the girl beside him.

“My father did something wicked and went to prison for it, didn’t he?” she said, sounding prim and disapproving, like a child who has been taught to parrot grown-up words.

The cab pulled up to the curb and Dirk opened the door and stepped out, relieved to bring a halt to her words.

“We’ll return to this tonight,” he said, and helped her to the sidewalk, camera and all.

She gave him her address, and he walked with her to the door and into the echoing cavern of a vaulted lobby. For just a moment he held her hand lightly and looked into brown eyes that had a shading of grief in them.

“Until this evening then,” he said. “Tot siens—till we meet again.”

At the homely Afrikaans farewell, tears came into her eyes and she blinked them back furiously. “Perhaps I shouldn’t see you after all. I don’t want to remember too much. Remembering hurts.”

There was, he found, a somewhat surprising tenderness in him toward her, and he smiled, knowing that she would not withdraw her invitation. She turned abruptly and walked toward the elevators and he stood looking after her. The jaunty set of her shoulders seemed touchingly deliberate. She swung the shapeless beret from one hand, guarding her camera with the other, and the bright fire of her hair shone in the lighted lobby. He watched her until she disappeared through an elevator door.

Then he left the building and strode along Michigan in the direction of his hotel. He was ready now to question the tremulous letter her mother had written—all that sticky sentiment about her innocent and helpless chick with no nest egg to save her from harm. This girl was far from helpless, and yet there was about her an air of innocence that was as unexpected as it was appealing. He could see a streak of her father too, which gave her a stubborn resistance. She might be harder to convince than he had expected, but he would give it his best try, for more reasons than one.

A subtle excitement had begun to stir in him and he whistled as he walked along the avenue. Had there been any about to recognize the tune, they would have known it for an old riding song of the Boers. All about a young man who was willing to ride his ten-pound horse to death on a night-long journey in order to be with his love in the morning.

I’ll think of my darling as the sun goes down,

The sun goes down, the sun goes down,

I’ll think of my darling as the sun goes down,

Down, down below the mountain.

I’ll ride, I’ll ride, I’ll ride, I’ll ride,

I’ll ride all night,

When the moon is bright …*

The girl felt the excitement too. Through the rest of the day she thought a great deal about Dirk Hohenfield—and about what little she knew of the past.

Her mother had been born in Chicago and had lived there after her parents’ death. Her one excursion out of the country had been with a world-circling musical troupe for which she had played the piano. When the tour had ended in financial disaster, Claire had stayed on in South Africa. There she had married and remained until something she would never talk about had terminated her life with Niklaas van Pelt. This was at the close of the war and she had been able to return to the States and the city she knew best—Chicago. At home, with a small daughter and herself to support, she had held various positions as receptionist and hostess—a type of work that required good looks and a charm of manner that Claire was happily able to supply.

Her mother’s illness and untimely death only a few months before had left Susan with a devastating sense of loss. She had always been a rather lonely person, but that had not mattered so much when there was someone to whom she could devote herself. Now there were reminders on every hand of the companion she had lost, and there was no one who needed her.

During the past year or so she had made friends in her newspaper work, it was true, but that rather sophisticated world was still new to her. She wanted very much to belong to the fourth estate, but she suspected that her coworkers did not yet take her seriously. There was no one to whom she was truly close.

Dirk Hohenfield’s sudden appearance was like having a rocket shoot across a bleak horizon. Like a rocket he would soon be gone, but for a little while she would delight in his presence and even in his link with a place she had never been able to forget.

It was understandable that the day dragged and that she was preoccupied with her own thoughts until the moment when she could get away. Then she stopped at a grocery store to shop and went home to the little apartment on the Near North Side that she had shared with her mother. In the tiny kitchen she went to work, feeling happier than she had for a long time.

Now she could think without interruption of the man who was coming here tonight. She did not know all the circumstances, but she knew her father had taken him as a ward when Dirk’s parents had died. Apparently he had continued in a close relationship to her father after he had grown up.

When a casserole of scalloped potatoes was browning in the oven and the salad greens were ready in the refrigerator, the steaks prepared for broiling, she wandered into the living room to look about with a sense of dissatisfaction.

She would have liked Dirk to see her as she really was, and she was not a pastel-pretty person like this room that had so well suited her mother. But there was nothing to be done about the matter at this late date. She wrinkled her nose ruefully at the rose-pink cloth she had spread over a gate-legged table by the window, and at pink candles in rosebud-painted china holders. Without disloyalty she knew that these things were Claire and not Susan, and she could only hope that Dirk would understand.

How well she remembered the boy he had been—the very way he had looked the last time she’d seen him, his bright fair hair shining under the South African sun, his eyes as vivid a blue as the Cape Town sky. They had clambered out upon a great stretch of rocks that reached into the Atlantic and he had been watchful of her, lest she slip and tumble into the water. She had wanted to take a picture of him with her small camera, but somehow it had never come out. He had teased her as he posed, and laughed at her, though never unkindly. With the single-mindedness of a lonely child she had looked up to him and there had been an aching in her beyond her years, sensing as she had that she was about to lose him out of her life forever. Such a loss seemed especially poignant for a child, moving at the bidding of adults and helpless to save what she loved.

By comparison, of course, Dirk had been grown-up—yet not wholly so. He was always willing to romp with her, and sometimes even to talk to her about his own adventurous dreams that still had about them an immaturity which she had been too young to recognize. Sometimes he told her of how he would be a great lion hunter when he was older, or perhaps he would find gold and become enormously rich. He had been the only person she knew with the spirit of adventure burning high in him—and thus akin to the heroes of the stories she loved to read.

Now he was here and real, they were both grown-up, and her feeling of excitement persisted and heightened.

A gilt-rimmed mirror over what had once been a real fireplace gave back her reflection and she studied it critically. Her beige dress with the green belt was right for so warm an evening, but she was uncertain of the green velvet band she had wound through her hair. Was that ribbon Claire or Susan? Sometimes it was very hard to tell.

She had just raised a hand to remove it when the sound of the buzzer startled her. Too late now—the ribbon would have to stay. She flew to push the button that would release the door catch three floors down.

“All the way up!” she called over the hall rail and heard the breathless sound of her own voice.

He came up bareheaded and the memory of the way he had looked in the sunlight that last day in South Africa was upon her again. Of course he was older now, but in so many ways the same. Still breathless, she retreated to her doorway, trying to hide this betrayal of her own eagerness. She must not let him think her too absurdly young and expectant.

He climbed easily and reached her with no loss of breath. His eyes were as intensely blue as she remembered them—no less so in the man than in the boy. There was an eagerness in him too and her heart thumped foolishly at the knowledge. This meeting could mean nothing, she reminded herself. A rocket could not stay its flight, and Susan van Pelt would never return to South Africa.

In his arms Dirk held an extravagance of yellow roses and she took them from him, letting her pleasure shine in her eyes. He followed her into the apartment, looking only at her.

“There were no proteas to be had,” he told her.

The word, so long forgotten, brought a bright recollection of South Africa’s flower—the fabulously beautiful and exotic protea that grew there in endless variety.

“Please sit down,” she said, shyly formal. “I’ll be only a moment. I want a vase for these roses.”

In the kitchen she filled a pale-green vase with water and arranged the flowers tenderly, her fingers a little clumsy with excitement, fearful as always lest she break something. That moment with the camera today had frightened her badly. Her neurosis! she thought wryly, and hoped Dirk had not noticed.

When she carried the vase back to the living room to set it on the coffee table, she found him standing before a row of photographs on the wall. It pleased her to see that he had singled them out for his attention, since these pictures were Susan and not Claire.

There was one dramatic shot she had taken of a fire which had damaged a West Side tenement some months ago, another of an excursion boat loading children at a Chicago River landing. And one of a snowy night on Michigan Avenue with shop windows magically ablur through the storm. The one she liked best, however, was a study of an elderly newspaper dealer at his sidewalk stand. The play of light and shadow was exactly right, the composition perfect. She had been proud of the result and pleased to sell it to a national magazine.

Dirk studied the pictures and she was glad of the opportunity to study him. The charm he had held for her as a child was still there, but magnified as the boy had matured into a man. How very attractive he was, not only because of his fair good looks but in the kindness he showed her, in the quick intelligence that was so evident in him—all adding up to an appeal so strong that it dismayed her a little.

“Do you enjoy this sort of work?” he asked, still considering the pictures. “I should think it might be hazardous and a bit rigorous for a woman.”

“I love it,” she said fervently, but she liked the fact that he was thinking of the girl behind the photos. “Before I went to the newspaper I sold photographic supplies in a store in the Loop, and I never really liked that. I always wanted to be out taking pictures.”

“These are good,” he said, and she warmed to his approval.

He turned to look directly at her and there was an appraisal in his eyes that made her a little self-conscious. She chose a chair in a shadowy corner and let him take the sofa facing the light. She did not want to be looked at and measured too closely, but only to look, to fill her eyes with the bright dazzle of him. This moment was one she would treasure and remember when he was gone.

“There’s a great deal to photograph in Cape Town,” he reminded her, a faint amusement underlying his tone as if he sensed something of the effect he had upon her and rather enjoyed it.

But that was a road she would not follow. “It’s no use,” she said firmly. “I’m not going back, if that’s what you mean.”

“Have I asked you to?” The timbre of his voice had changed with the years. It was no longer a boy’s voice, but that of a man, deep and vibrant: “I told you I wanted to see you for my own pleasure first of all. The rest can wait a bit.”

She brought him a drink and as they sipped companionably, she asked him about his work for her father in Cape Town.

“You were always going to be a famous hunter someday,” she reminded him. “Or discover a fabulous vein of gold.”

He laughed aloud, pleased that she remembered. “I’m afraid my present hunting is on the prosaic side, though it has its moments of interest. After—what happened—your father sold his home in Johannesburg and moved to the Cape Town house, where he has lived ever since. He has become an exporter of native craft work and has two shops as well. His store in Johannesburg is particularly fine, and there’s a smaller one in Cape Town. My hunting these days consists of going out to places he can no longer reach—in the Transkei, Zululand, Northern Rhodesia. Your father’s standards are high—we don’t look for cheap things, but for real native art work. It’s remarkable how keen he has remained, how alive he is.”

She did not want to hear about her father. “I can barely remember the house in Jo’burg,” she said. “It was always the Cape Town house I loved best. Protea Hill! Such a lovely name for it. When we went there for the December holidays in summer I had a room with a wonderful view.”

Dirk set down his glass, his eyes holding hers. “A view that’s still waiting for you, Susan. I doubt that it’s changed in the slightest.”

“I know,” she said. “The mountain wouldn’t change.”

She excused herself, went off to the retreat of the kitchen to put the steaks under the broiling flame and toss the salad. But he would not remain a guest in the parlor. He joined her and carried in plates and glasses as though he enjoyed helping her, though he must be accustomed to servants.

When they had settled down to the meal, she asked him more about his own life so that he would open no further dangerous doors.

“What did you do before you went to work for my father?”

His smile was rueful. “When I finished school I got the diamond fever so you see it was diamonds by then, instead of gold. I did a little prospecting on my own, though not very successfully. Your father still owned land around the Kimberley area at that time and he told me I could have anything I discovered there. He was mainly interested in quenching my fever, I suppose.”

He reached into a pocket and drew out a leather wallet. From an inner fold he took a small packet of paper.

“I still have one of the stones I found at that time. I’ve kept it for a lucky pocket piece and to prove I’ve been a digger.”

She bent her head to watch as he unfolded the square of paper, and was aware of his own fair head so close to hers that his breath touched her cheek.

“There,” he said. “I’ll wager that’s like no diamond you’ve ever seen.”

The tiny stone shone orchid pink and translucent against the white paper and was irregular in form. The rough natural shape of the diamond was revealed, but it lacked the brighter sparkle of a cut diamond.

“This is what they call a fancy stone,” Dirk told her. “Fancies are odd, off-color diamonds. Perhaps pink or green or yellow. Sometimes even black. This one isn’t large enough or perfect enough to be of any great value, but I have a certain sentiment about it. Of course it’s uncut, or I would have been breaking the law by bringing it into this country. Only uncut stones come in duty-free.”

Susan picked up the little stone and nested it on her palm, seeing not the diamond but a very young man with a hunger for adventure in his heart, working for a dream that had never materialized.

“I thought De Beers owned all the diamonds in South Africa,” she said. “How is it you were permitted to do any prospecting on your own?”

“The syndicate owns the important holdings,” he explained. “But there are still diggers who work their own claims and sell what little they find to De Beers. As a matter of fact, it’s against the law to possess an uncut diamond in South Africa unless you are an authorized person. As a licensed digger who found this stone myself I’m able to keep it.” He returned the pink diamond to the paper and folded it away in his wallet. “Have you ever heard of the Kimberley Royal?” he added.

She shook her head, fascinated by this talk of diamonds and of a South Africa she had long ago put away from her and reconciled to painful memory.

“The Kimberley Royal was one of the great finds,” Dirk said. “A remarkably beautiful and valuable stone. Bigger than the Hope diamond and nearly flawless. I saw it once as a boy. The very machinery that sorts diamonds these days may crush or damage the unusually large stone, but that’s a chance that has to be taken. The present system is geared to a realistic commercial output. It takes, on an average, four tons of rock to give one carat of diamonds. But now I’m getting a bit technical.”

She did not mind. She loved to listen to him and she gave him her absorbed attention all through the meal. Later, when he had gone, she would think about everything he had said.

When dessert was finished and she had cleared away the dishes, they sat among the pale pinks and baby blues and drank large cups of American brewed coffee. But now Dirk seemed restless, as if he felt time was slipping away and the subject for which he had really come had still not been opened between them.

In this mood his appeal for her was more disturbing. There were contrasts in this man, vibrant changes that would ask much of any woman who cared for him. But the thought of caring for him seriously was ridiculous and she dismissed the notion impatiently. She must be on guard against herself if her thoughts followed such a course.

He set down his cup and moved about the room again, glancing once more at the photographs, picking up a small carved antelope figure from the bookcase and holding it out to her with a smile.

“So you still keep a bit of Africa around?”

“It’s an impala,” Susan said, the remembered name coming back to her unbidden.

He studied the stripe-grained golden wood of the carving, turning it about with experienced fingers. Tall lyrate horns rose from the slender, gracefully turned head. The ears were pricked, the muzzle delicate, the eyes long and luminous, even in a wood carving. The figure was at rest, its forelegs curled beneath the body, the haunches smoothly rounded, with the strong hindquarters of a leaping animal. The curving grain suggested the haunch stripe of the impala and about the whole was an air of life and sensitive alertness, as though the creature might at any moment leap from its oval stand and go flying out of Dirk’s fingers.

“A good piece,” he said in approval. “The artist has caught the feeling of a wild thing, even at rest.”

Susan stared at the figure. Until Dirk held it up the carving had meant nothing in particular to her and she had not thought of its name in years. Her mother had never connected the carving with South Africa. Yet suddenly knowledge was there, rising without warning from the forgotten past.

He set the figure down, moving closer to her, and this time he picked up a book from a table at her elbow and turned it over with a low whistle of astonishment.

“You want nothing to do with South Africa, yet you read the books of John Cornish?”

“Someone on the paper recommended it,” Susan told him, a little startled by his tone. “The jacket flap says that his mother was an American, like mine, and I believe he lives in America now. Except when he’s off to get material for a new book. That one is about Algeria.”

Dirk turned the book over and studied the face pictured on the back of the jacket with an air of displeasure.

“Cornish used to write about South Africa,” he said. “That’s where he grew up. In fact, it was an article of his that helped to send your father to prison. Did you know that?”

She had not known it and she sat staring at him in silence.

“Cornish is back in the Union now,” he went on. “The Johannesburg papers were running pieces about him when I left. I even ran into him one day there in the Carlton Hotel. It was not a fortunate meeting. I hope he’ll stay away from Cape Town.”

She wanted to ask more about John Cornish and her father, but remembered in time that these were matters in which she had no interest.

Dirk put down the book and came toward her, stood over her, so that she had to look up into his face. “Why are you so afraid of returning?” His gaze commanded her, yet there was a gentleness in him that kept her from turning away.

“My mother told me a few things about my father,” she said. “He really cared very little for us. There’s no reason to go back just because he’s lately changed his mind about seeing me.”

“But it was your mother who ran away at a time when he needed her most,” Dirk said.

Indignation flared in her. “That’s not true! He didn’t need her, didn’t want her. She was thinking of me, of getting me away from what might happen to us because of him.”

He countered calmly with a question and she saw pity in his eyes. “Didn’t she ever tell you why your father went to prison?”

“She said it was best that we both forget. For years it’s never been mentioned between us. Anyhow, all that has nothing to do with me now.”

The truth behind her willing ignorance was something she could explain to no one. There was about it a faintly nightmare quality she knew better than to rouse.

“I know enough,” she hurried on. “My father must have been an important man in his day. Mother told me he was well-known in the diamond world—one of the most valued men with De Beers. He ran for the South African Parliament at one time too, didn’t he? He was a leader, a respected person. Yet he threw it all away. Threw his family away—everything!”

“Listen to me,” Dirk said, and the gentleness had gone from his manner. “It’s time you knew the story. It’s true that he broke the law, and no one knows why. But he’s paid for that mistake a good many times over. So it would be a fine thing if his daughter—”

Susan jumped to her feet, familiar panic rising in her. “I don’t want to hear!” she cried. “If you go on, I won’t listen.”

He looked clearly astonished at her show of emotion. Quietly he sat down on the sofa, and drew her to the place beside him, put a quieting arm about her shoulders. She shivered at his touch, all too conscious of his warmth and nearness. It was dangerous to get too close to a rocket. The tears she had been holding back since her mother’s death welled up in her eyes. Softly, helplessly, she began to cry. He turned her head so that her cheek was against his shoulder and his fingers smoothed the bright hair back from her warm, damp brow.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’d forgotten that you’ve had a bad time lately. I’m not sure what it is you fear and I suspect that it’s unreal. But I won’t trouble you about it now.”

She suffered herself to rest against his shoulder for a few blissful moments and then raised her head and gave him a wavering smile.

“There—I’m all right now. And terribly ashamed. I didn’t invite you here to be cried on.” She blew a nose that she knew was pink, dried her eyes, and silently despised herself.

Dirk glanced at his watch and stood up. “I mustn’t forget that you’re a working girl and probably have to be up early in the morning. I appreciate your good dinner. It’s been wonderful to see you again, Susan.”

He was impersonal now and almost brusque. She knew she had sent him away with her tears, her nonsense. “Wh-when are you returning to Cape Town?” she asked, her voice fainter than she intended.

“At the moment I’m not sure,” he told her. “This assignment may take me longer than I’d expected. To be perfectly truthful, I’m going home just as soon as you’re ready to go with me.”

He waited for no answer to that, but kissed her lightly on the cheek and took his departure before she could summon words to answer him. She stood frozen in the doorway, and listened to the sound of his steps as he ran lightly down the turning stairs. Before he reached the bottom he began to whistle and the tune touched some chord of memory in her mind. When the street door opened and closed, she went back into the apartment and stared about her vaguely. Somehow the place had a different look to her now. The valentine touches no longer mattered. Dirk had known they had nothing to do with her.

On the table lay the book by John Cornish. She picked it up and, as Dirk had done, turned it over to study the face portrayed on the book jacket. The picture was a candid shot and she had not thought it professionally good. It showed the rather brooding face of a man in his early forties or late thirties—a face with a strong bone structure beneath the flesh, the eyes deeply set beneath heavy brows. The mouth was straight and unsmiling, with a relentless quality about it, yet there was a mark of sensitivity to the lips. It was a face worth photographing skillfully, and this had been a haphazard shot.

What role had this man played in her father’s life? She knew of him only as a highly respected writer on African affairs. Today America regarded him as an American. She put the book aside abruptly. She did not want to read John Cornish after what Dirk had told her about him.

She reached for the carved impala and sat on the sofa holding it tightly in her hands as if for comfort. She knew very well what it was she tried to postpone, to fend off. In spite of the fear that had its roots in her half-forgotten childhood, there was a faint edge of eagerness encroaching upon her resistance. Was it possible that she might in the end give in and go back to South Africa with Dirk Hohenfield?

She shook her head stubbornly, fighting off the thought. No, certainly she would never go back. Not if it meant any contact with Niklaas van Pelt, who was her father.

The tune Dirk had been whistling still haunted her memory, running through her mind over and over again. The words came back to her suddenly.

I’ll think of my darling as the sun goes down,

… Down, down below the mountain.