A little byplay followed; the presentation of the bill, the click of gold on porcelain, the carelessly gathered change, the meagre tip, the reappearance of the hat, the bowing waiters, the craning necks, and the departure of de Fresnoy, an umbrella under his arm, a cigar between his teeth.
Verplank, emptying a glass of Chablis, looked out of the window. A panorama was forming. He saw the room at Coronado, Leilah as she told him of her love, his brief absence, his harrowing return, the hunt for her that had extended over half the globe, a hunt that divorce had not terminated, which her re-marriage had not stopped and which, had he not at last discovered her, nothing could have stayed save his death or hers or the reason of the implacable Why. An obstacle to the Why or, it might be, the incarnation of it, was Barouffski, and Verplank saw himself standing somewhere with Barouffski before him. There was a command, the call of numbers, a detonation and the sight of Barouffski turning, swaying, falling down.
The panorama faded. A picture had appeared. Before the window, arrested by a congestion of traffic, a motor was stopping. In it and the mist was Leilah.
Verplank sprang to his feet. With the idea of going out to her there and forcing an explanation, he looked about for his hat.
Silverstairs also got up. He had not seen. He too was looking for his hat. Placidly he remarked:
“I have an appointment with a chap named Tempest. Will you come with me?”
But now, the congestion relieved, the motor shot on. Verplank had the spectacle of a face fading instantly in the fog and the future.
“Will you?” Silverstairs repeated.
“Will I what?”
“I have to see a man about a horse. He lives just off the Bois de Boulogne, in the rue de la Pompe. Will you come up there with me?”