"Signor Panatella, the famous Italian Aeronaut, will make parachute drop from height never before attempted."
The ascension was to be made that afternoon from one of the amusement parks on the New Jersey shore of the Hudson.
"This is Providence," he muttered to himself, catching up the dodger.
Slipping through the door and up the stairs, he tapped at the door of
Pauline's room. When there came no answer he entered swiftly, laid a
paper on the table and glided back to the hall, back to the library.
From there he called up Hicks.
Hicks' domiciles were so many and suddenly changeable that he claimed nothing so dignified as a regular telephone number. But he had scribbled on the bottom of his note the number of a saloon on the lower West Side.
He was there when Owen rang.
"Hello, Hello, . . . Is that you, Hicks? . . . I want to see you. . . .
What? . . . No, right away. . . . Broke? . . . you always are ….
you'll get the cash all right. . . . What's that? …. Come here? ….
Not on your life. I'll come to you …. Not half that time ….
I'll take the motorcycle. All right …. Good-by."
He hung up the receiver, went up to his room and got into cycling kit. As he came down stairs he met Pauline, who was returning from a shopping trip.
"Good morning, Owen," she said brightly. "Do you know, I believe there is more peril in a dry goods store than on a pirate yacht. What parts of my new hat are left?"
"Only the becoming ones."