alarmed concern. Then he groaned again, and rose and took his hat.
As he stepped into the alley, the Semitic man pausing at the entrance spoke to him. “Where are you going?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Fairchild replied. “Somewhere. The Great Illusion has just called,” he explained. “He has an entirely new scheme to-night.”
“Oh. Slipping out, are you?” the other asked, lowering his voice.
“No, he just dashed away. But I don’t dare stay in this evening. He’ll be back inside of two hours to tell me why this one didn’t work. We’ll have to go somewhere else.” The Semitic man mopped his handkerchief across his bald head. Beyond the lattice blind beside them the typewriter still chattered. Fairchild chuckled again. Then he sighed. “I wish Talliaferro could find him a woman. I’m tired of being seduced. . . . Let’s go over to Gordon’s.”
6
The niece had already yawned elaborately several times at the lone guest: she was prepared, and recognized the preliminary symptoms indicating that her brother was on the point of his customary abrupt and muttered departure from the table. She rose also, with alacrity.
“Well,” she said briskly, “I’ve enjoyed knowing you a lot, Mark. Next summer maybe we'll be back here, and we'll have to do it again, won’t we?”
“Patricia,” her aunt said, “sit down.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Pat. But Josh wants me to sit with him to-night. He’s going away to-morrow,” she explained to the guest.
“Aren’t you going, too?” Mark Frost asked.
