Page:The Black Camel (IA blackcamel0000earl).djvu/52

HUNTLEY VAN HORN strolled down Kalakaua Avenue in the direction of Shelah Fane’s house. On this tiny island in the midst of the rolling Pacific, few outward signs of a romantic past survived. He might have been on Hollywood Boulevard: the parade of automobiles along that stretch of American asphalt was constant, a trolley clattered by, he walked on a concrete sidewalk under the soft yellow glow of modern street-lamps. Yet, beyond the range of those lamps, he was conscious of the black velvet of a tropic night. He caught the odor of ginger blossoms and plumeria, a croton hedge gave way to one of hibiscus, topped with pale pink flowers that were doomed to die at midnight.

He came to the number Shelah had impressed on his memory and turned in through the gates on to a broad drive that curved, before a wide front door. Passing beneath a prolific banyan tree, two centuries older than the motion pictures, he rang the bell. Jessop admitted him.

“Oh, Mr. Van Horn,” the butler said. “I’m happy to see you again.”

“How have you been?” the actor inquired.

“In splendid health, sir. I trust you enjoyed your little jaunt to Tahiti?”