"Oh, you're uncanny, that's what you are," he said. "You've lived so
long in the East that you've imbibed its tricks of occultism and
necromancy. I suppose you have discovered in some way that that
mushroom has sprung up since the old man sent me to Heidelberg?"
"I guessed it, I admit. It does not figure among the down-town
sky-scrapers in the latest drawing available in London."
"And d'ye mean to tell me that you can pick out any of these
top-notchers merely by studying a picture?"
"Yes. Probably you could do the same if you, like me, felt yourself a
returned exile."
Young Devar awoke at last to the fact that his companion was brimming
over with subdued excitement. Whether this arose from the intense
nationalism of an expatriated American, or from some more subtle
personal cause, he could not determine, but, being young, he was
cynical. He looked at the strong, set face, the well-knit, sinewy
figure, the purposeful hands gripping the fore rail of the promenade
deck; then he growled, with just the least spice of humorous envy:
"Say, Curtis, old man, you ought to have a hell of a good time in New
York!"
"At any rate, I shall not suffer from lack of enthusiasm," came the
quick retort.
Devar felt the spur, and his restless, bird-like eyes condescended to
dwell for a few seconds in silence on the splendid panorama in front.
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