This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's. His arm fell to his side. " There was a momentary and terrible silence, broken only by a few feeble groans. ” “Won’t you postpone the attempt, then?” he said gallantly, “until I have done something to deserve your gratitude? You will not forget—seven-thirty, Café Maston, Boulevard des Italiennes. She caught at the idea. The thousand voices which a few moments before had been so clamorous were now hushed. Anyhow, there was some pleasurable satisfaction in knowing where the quarry would be for the next three weeks.
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