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Darrow acquiesced, and they got out and sent Effie on in the motor. Their way led through a bit of sober French woodland, flat as a faded tapestry, but with gleams of live emerald lingering here and there among its browns and ochres. The luminous grey air gave vividness to its dying colours, and veiled the distant glimpses of the landscape in soft uncertainty.
Darrow leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. Eldridge continued, explaining the means he had taken to determine more accurately the exact location of Monsieur X. The morning of the third day after the failure of the search, and of the sixth since McCarthy's disappearance, had arrived.
Such a shriek of laughter as burst forth from the crowd was scarcely ever heard, and certainly such a blank countenance as old Darrow exhibited it would be hard to conceive.
At a typewriter lolled the clerk, his hand fumbling among some papers. The group was exceedingly lifelike, more so, Darrow thought, than any wax figures the Eden Musee had ever placed for the mystification of its country visitors.
But I must know the truth, and surely it's best for her that I should find it out from you." Darrow waited a moment; then he said slowly: "What you imagine's mere madness. She was at the theatre with me." "With you?" He saw a tremor pass through her, but she controlled it instantly and faced him straight and motionless as a wounded creature in the moment before it feels its wound.
As to Anna's fancied perturbation, it might simply be due to the fact that she had decided to plead Owen's cause the next day, and had perhaps already had a glimpse of the difficulties awaiting her. But Darrow knew that he was too deep in his own perplexities to judge the mental state of those about him.
He lighted his seventh cigarette and leaned back. The conversation, which had zigzagged from the war to Zuloaga, and from Rasputin the Monk to the number of miles a Darrow would go on a gallon, narrowed down to the thin, straight line of business. "Now don't misunderstand. Please! We're not presuming to dictate. Dear me, no!
"That's Larry Mulcahey," remarked the reporter, with a grin. "He keeps bar." "I'm hungry," observed Darrow. "Haven't eaten since noon." "Free lunch," suggested the reporter practically. "You won't be able to get any service anywhere. How about that interview? Got anything to say?" "You're the busy little bee to-night," said Darrow. "But I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll give you a tip.
There can be no question that he would have done so had not his Mexican impatience betrayed him. He shot too soon. Percy Darrow stopped in his tracks. Although we heard the bullet sing by us, for an instant we thought he was hit. Then Perdosa fired a second time, again without result. Darrow turned sharp to the left and began desperately to scale the steep cliffs.
Madame de Chantelle could not resist such incontestable claims. She seemed to feel her son's hovering and discriminating presence, and she gave Darrow the sense that he was being tested and approved as a last addition to the Leath Collection. She also made him aware of the immense advantage he possessed in belonging to the diplomatic profession.
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