As Donald stood in the doorway, an automobile turned the corner and came to a stop, the lights from the lamps shining on the wet street, and throwing everything outside their radius into sudden darkness.
A man got out of the machine and ran for shelter. He was coughing, and held his collar close about his throat.
“Why, hello, Dillingham,” said Morley, recognizing him. “How did you get out here?”
“Joy-riding,” said Dillingham with a curl of his lip. “Tried to make a short cut, and got marooned. What are you doing here?”
“I've been out in the country for a couple of weeks. Got caught in the shower. What's the matter? Are you sick?”
Dillingham was leaning against the door jamb, shivering. He was a short, sallow, delicate-looking young fellow with self-explanatory puffs under his somewhat prominent eyes.
“Chilled to the bone,” he chattered. “I've got to get something to warm me up. Is this a saloon?”
“Yes, but it's closed. Won't be open until midnight.”
Mr. Dillingham made a sweeping condemnation of a city administration that would countenance such a proceeding, then set his wits to work to evade the law.
“Whose joint is this, anyhow?” he asked, glancing up. “Sheeley's? Why, of course. I've been out here to prize fights. He lives somewhere around here. Ugh! but I'm cold. I'll be a corpse this time next week if I don't head off this chill. Let's look him up and get a drink.”