The sergeant's eyes groaned, rolled skyward.
"Lady, he'll be booked at Centre Street headquarters. He won't come here till he's been convicted."
"Oh. I didn't know. Where is it?"
He told her. She flagged a cab, and went there.
As she mounted the wide flight of stairs, she was joined by Kay Natello and Ferdinand Pairfield.
Ferdinand was resplendent in purple scarf, gray plaid jacket, dove-gray trousers, gray suede shoes and lemon-colored socks. His hands were white butterflies emerging from cocoons.
"Darling!" he cried, like bells from Lakmé.
Kay Natello might as well have been dressed in a fire hose for all the blue cotton dress did for her gaunt frame. She said nothing, and Avalon was grateful for being spared that.
"Myrmidons," Avalon murmured. "What's the rap?"
Ferdinand put butterflies on her arm and she shivered. "Quaint girl," he purred. "We were down to see a lawyer on Wall Street, and we were just passing in a cab — with the most brutal driver, my dear, simply delicious — and Kay said, 'There's Avalon!' And since we'd been looking all over for you—" His shrug was as graceful as feathers on a little wind.