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The dark youth shuffled the cards twice dexterously and dealt. This time he held four kings and a seven. "Go to it, Winnie," he said lazily. "No, thanks." Winnie shook his head. "The tall grass for mine." His neighbor refused likewise, but the lad with the tortoise-rimmed glasses next Vernon straightened involuntarily. "I'll open it." His voice trembled. "Good-night!"
George glanced at Miss Holland; she was looking from side to side, like a bird alighted among strange flowers; she met his eyes and dimpled in frank delight. Mrs. Hastings sat erectly beside her, her tortoise-rimmed glasses expressing bland approval. The improbability of her surroundings had quite escaped her in her satisfied discovery that the place was habitable.
There was a certain abrupt geniality about him. His tortoise-rimmed glasses gave him an oddly owlish look, like a small boy taking liberties with grandfather's spectacles. Jock found himself sitting down, his anger slipping from him. "My name's McChesney," he began. "I'm here because I want to work for this concern."
"We're a committee," repeated young Herricote, sitting down on the edge of a chair, and looking around most uncomfortably at the luxurious apartment. He had not realized it would be like this. He was beginning to feel like a fish out of water. As for the rest of the committee, they were overawed and dumb, all except the little fellow with the tortoise-rimmed glasses.
Say, youse don't have ter wait long fer de curtain, ter go up on de act. Don't youse make a sound!" The doorknob turned. Jimmie Dale whipped his flashlight into his pocket and in a flash, as a man entered, switched on the light, and slammed shut the door. A dapper individual, wearing tortoise-rimmed glasses, with black moustache and goatee, was staring into the muzzle of Jimmie Dale's automatic.
A small, keen-faced man, whose steady gray eyes were shielded by tortoise-rimmed spectacles, had come into the room and now stood quietly at the bar, sipping a glass of Vichy. He was sharply observant of the party as it broke up, Pedlow and Sneyd preceding the younger men to the corridor, and, as the latter turned to follow, the stranger stepped quickly forward, speaking Cooley's name.
A miraculous sixth sense guides him. A mysterious something warns him of danger lurking within the seemingly innocent oblong white envelope. Without slitting the flap, without pausing to adjust his tortoise-rimmed glasses, without clearing his throat, without lighting his cigarette he knows. The deadly newspaper story he scents in the dark. Cub reporter. Crusty city editor. Cub fired.
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