"Oh," McHale responded. "Lemme think. No, I guess not. I never used that name that I remember of. No, partner, my name ain't Dunne."
"We want Dunne. Where'll we find him?"
"Why, now," said McHale, "that's a right hard question. You might find him one place, and then again you mightn't. I reckon I wouldn't be misleading you none if I was to tell you you'd find him wherever he's at."
"You workin' for him?" the dark man put in quickly.
"I was, a minute ago. Now I got a job with an inquiry office. Anything else I can tell you?"
"No," said the dark man. "But you can tell Dunne that up to a minute ago he had a —— —— fool workin' for him!"
Dead silence while a watch could tick off ten seconds. Clyde scarcely breathed. At different times in her life she had heard noisy quarrels in city streets, quarrels big with oath and threat. This was different. She experienced a sensation as though, even in the bright sunshine beneath the blue, unflecked summer sky where all was instinct with growth and health and life, she were watching a deathbed.
The two strangers sat motionless, their eyes on McHale, their right hands resting quietly by their waists. McHale stood equally still, facing them, his eyes narrowed down to slits, his left hand holding the lapel of his coat, his right hand, a half-smoked cigarette between the first and second fingers, on a level with his chin. He expelled a thin stream of smoke from his lungs, and spoke:
"I reckon you can tell him yourself. Here he come now."
The eyes of the first man never shifted. The other instantly looked over his shoulder. McHale laughed.