“How fortunate I’d provided her!” he said. “I’ve got my start already, and without having to think very hard over it either.”
The trance began again, and lasted several hours, during which time Kelly and the Professor stole softly into Harley’s rooms, and, perceiving his condition, respected it.
“He’s either asleep or imagining,” said the Professor, in a whisper.
“He can’t imagine,” returned the Doctor. “Call it—realizing. Whatever it is he’s up to, we mustn’t interfere. There isn’t any use waking him anyhow. I know where he keeps his cigars. Let’s sit down and have a smoke.”
This the intruders did, hoping that sooner or later their host would observe their presence; but Harley lay in blissful unconsciousness of their coming, and they finally grew weary of waiting.
[Picture: He went into one of his trances]
“He must be at work on a ten-volume novel,” said the Doctor. “Let’s go.”
And with that they departed. Night came on, and with it darkness, but Harley never moved. The fact was he was going through an examination of the human race to find a man good enough for Marguerite Andrews, and it speaks volumes for the interest she had suddenly inspired in his breast that it took him so long to find what he wanted.
Along about nine o’clock he gave a deep sigh and returned to earth.
“I guess I’ve got him,” he said, wearily, rubbing his forehead, which began to ache a trifle. “I’ll model him after the Professor. He’s a good fellow, moderately good-looking, has position, and certainly knows something, as professors go. I doubt if he is imposing enough for the American girl generally, but he’s the best I can get in the time at my disposal.”
So the Professor was unconsciously slated for the office of hero; Mrs. Willard was cast for chaperon, and the Doctor, in spite of Harley’s previous resolve not to use him, was to be introduced for the comedy element. The villain selected was the usual poverty-stricken foreigner with a title and a passion for wealth, which a closer study of his heroine showed Harley that Miss Andrews possessed; for on her way home from the pier she took Mrs. Willard to the Amsterdam and treated her to a luncheon which nothing short of a ten-dollar bill would pay for, after which the two went shopping, replenishing Miss Andrews’s wardrobe—most of which lay snugly stored in the hold of the _New York_, and momentarily getting farther and farther away from its fair owner—in the course of which tour Miss Andrews expended a sum which, had Harley possessed it, would have made it unnecessary for him to write the book he had in mind at all.