Jenkins was slipping silently away. Like a frightened wraith he flitted gratefully through the swinging doors.
"A middle-class car," explained Harrowby, "and I want a live man to boost it—"
"Beg pardon," interrupted Minot, rising, "I'll say good night. We'll get together about that other matter in the morning. By the way, Mr. Harrowby, have you any idea what has become of Allan?"
"No, I haven't. I sent him a telegram this afternoon saying that I was on my way here. Must have run off on business. Of course, he'll be back for his wedding."
"Oh, yes—of course," Minot agreed sadly, "he'll be back for his wedding. Good night, gentlemen."
A few minutes later he stood at the window of 389, gazing out at the narrow street, at the stately Manhattan Club, and the old Spanish houses on either side.
"And she refused me!" he muttered. "To think that should be the biggest piece of luck that's come to me since I hit this accursed town!"
