The sun sank; the chimneys deadened against the sky-line. When Wilkins, ten minutes later, stole in to see if his master needed his assistance, he found McAllister staring into the darkening west.
II
The bell on St. Timothy's tolled twelve o'clock as McAllister's hansom, straight from the Alhambra, clacked into the moonlit silence of Marlborough Square. A soft breath of distant gardens hung on the cool air. The chimneys rose from the house-tops sharp against a pale blue sky glittering with stars. Here and there a yellow window gleamed for a moment under the eaves, then vanished mysteriously. It was a night for lovers,—calm, still, ecstatic,—for hayfields under the harvest moon,—for white, ghostly reaches of the Thames,—for poetry,—for the exquisite enjoyment of earth's nearest approach to heaven.
The trap above McAllister's head opened.
"Beg pardon, sir. W'ere did you s'y, sir?"
"I said Pondel's," replied McAllister, rather sharply. He knew the cabby must think him a lunatic, but he didn't care. He intended to do the decent thing. Hang it! The fellow could mind his own business.
The hansom crossed the street and reined up in the shadow. All was dark, silent, deserted. Only the brass plate beside the door reflected strangely the moonlight across the way.
"'Ere's Pondel's, sir." The cabby got down and crossed the sidewalk to the door.
"All shut hup!" he commented. "Close at six."
A dark figure emerged quickly from, a neighboring shadow.