"Give me a dozen of those roses there." She sold flowers also. "The pink ones. How much?" he asked.
"Two-fifty."
He laid down the money. "Never mind the box. They are for you. Good evening."
The girl stared at the flowers as Ali Baba must have stared at the cask with rubies.
"For me!" she whispered. "For nothing!"
Her eyes blurred. She never saw Hawksley again; but that was of no importance. She had a gentle deed to put away in the lavender of recollection.
Outside Hawksley could see nothing of the man who had bought the cigars. At any rate, further dodging would be useless. He would go directly to his destination. Old Gregor had sent him a duplicate key to the apartment. He could hide there for a day or two; then visit Rathbone's banker at his residence in the night to establish his identity. Gregor could be trusted to carry the wallet and the pouch to the bank. Once these were walled in steel half the battle would be over. He would have nothing to guard thereafter but his life. He laughed brokenly. Nothing but the clothes he stood in. He never could claim the belongings he had been forced to leave in that hotel back yonder.
But there was loyal old Gregor. Somebody would be honestly glad to see him. The poor old chap!
