Thornley Colton

Not often did mere man attract attention in the famous dining-room of the “Regal,” but men and women alike, who were seated near the East Archway, raised their eyes to stare at the man who stood in the doorway, calmly surveying them. The smoke-glass, tortoise-shell library spectacles, which made of his eyes two great circles of dull brown, brought out the whiteness of the face strikingly. The nose, with its delicately sensitive nostrils, was thin and straight; the lips, now curved in a smile, somehow gave one the impression that, released by the mind, they would suddenly spring back to their accustomed thin, straight line. For a smile seemed out of place on that pale, masterful face, with its lean, cleft chin. The snow-white hair of silky fineness that curled away from the part to show the pink scalp underneath contrasted sharply with the sober black of the faultless dinner-coat that fell in just the proper folds from the broad shoulders and deep chest.

The eyes of the girl at the sixth table seemed to be held, fascinated. The elder woman, who was with her, toyed with her salad and conformed to convention by stealing covert glances at the man in the archway, and the square-chinned, clean-looking young man who made the third of the party stared openly, unashamed; but his eyes held not the other diners’ rude questioning, nor yet the girl’s frank fascination.

“You are staring, Rhoda,” rebuked the elder woman mildly.

The girl turned her eyes with a little sigh.

“What wonderful character there is in his face!” she murmured.

“He is a wonderful character,” asserted the man, his face lighting up boyishly, his tone one of admiration.

“You know him?” Both asked it in a breath, eyes eager.

“Yes. He is Thornley Colton, man about town, club member, musician, whose recreation is the solving of problems that baffle other men. It was he who found the murderer of President Parkins of the up-town National, and, when the crash came, secured me my position in the Berkley Trust.”

“A detective?” The elder woman asked it; the girl’s eyes were again on Colton.

“No.” The man shook his head. “He jokingly calls himself a problemist, and accepts only those cases that he thinks will prove interesting, for the solving of them is merely his recreation. He takes no fees. The man with him is his secretary, Sydney Thames, whose name is pronounced like that of the river. He, too, is a remarkably handsome man, but he is never noticed when with Thornley Colton, except as his coal-black hair and eyes, and red cheeks, form a striking contrast to Colton.”

“I had not even noticed him,” confessed the elder woman, as she glanced for the first time at the slim young man of twenty-five or six, who stood at Colton’s side, eyes apparently taking in every detail of the big dining-room. Then she remembered her duty as mentor. “You must not stare so rudely, Rhoda!” she chided.

“I don’t think Mr. Colton minds the stare,” the man said quietly. “He has been totally blind since birth, though many people refuse to believe it.”

“Blind!” They both breathed it, in their voices the tender sympathy all women feel for the misfortunes of others.

“He is coming,” warned the elder woman unnecessarily.

They had seen the head-waiter apparently apologize to Colton, and step aside. The secretary had whispered a few words, and Thornley Colton, his slim stick held lightly and idly in his fingers, started down the aisle between the rows of tables, shoulders swung back, chin up, followed by Sydney Thames. The woman and the girl watched his approach with parted lips, in their eyes mother fear for his safety as he hurried toward them, stepping aside at exactly the proper moment to avoid a hurrying waiter, walking around the very much overdressed, stout woman whose chair projected a foot over the unmarked aisle line. As he neared their table, they saw the thin lips frame a smile of friendly greeting.