“It isn’t,” said Potter, sharply.
O’Mera failed to notice, but launched into anecdotes of Cantor’s adventures with various women, each adventure cited to demonstrate a certain cold-bloodedness in the dealings of the man with the other sex—and a degree of success with the other sex which Potter had not suspected.
“It’s his principal occupation,” O’Mera said; “he has some other one, I guess, but I’m darned if I’ve ever figured it out. Handles money careless, too. Must clean up somehow.”
Cantor merely appeared in the door of the main dining-room, and, after looking around, stepped back into the corridor. Watts drew back his chair.
“Let’s go down and knock the balls around awhile,” he suggested.
“Got a date,” said O’Mera.
“Come on, Potter.... I want to talk to you a bit.”
Potter nodded and got to his feet. They walked between the tables to the door and out into the handsome hallway. Coming toward them from the elevator they saw Cantor and a girl; he had evidently been waiting for her to come up from the ladies’ quarters below. It was Hildegarde von Essen.
Potter stiffened, but did not pause. It was the first time he had seen her since she struck him across the face and flung herself into the house the night her flight was turned into a fiasco. She was unchanged; she was the same slender, daring, challenging, keen creature as before. Something she was saying compelled a laugh from Cantor. Then he saw Potter and smiled with surprise.
“Why, Waite, when did you get back?” he asked, and moved forward with hand outstretched. Potter was walking toward him. Hildegarde’s eyes were upon him; he could feel them, but did not return her look. He dared not. “I’m mighty glad to see you,” Cantor said, as Potter took his hand. “Dined?... Miss von Essen and I are just going to have a bite. Won’t you join us? I’m sure Miss von Essen seconds that.” He turned toward her, and something in her look, her bearing, startled him. She had grown pale, but her eyes glittered; she was staring at Potter savagely.