Scarcely half a block farther on, a second young man lifted his hat with a bow and—wiggled his fingers!
Mr. McVicar glared.
When a third young man passed them, with a well-bred smile, a bared head, and a mute greeting, Mr. McVicar’s face became almost distorted. Agatha heard him gurgle.
Not a minute later, a fourth young man advanced toward them, one hand rising to his hat as he came on. Mr. McVicar, guiding Agatha, abruptly stepped aside into a shop and made a quick purchase. When they had gained the street again by a side exit, he wrote: “I have a headache. Do you mind if I wear these?” “These” were coloured glasses.
“Not—in—the—least,” she declared.
The morning was given over to tenement-house inspection, and Agatha was a fairy-figure amid the sordid gloom of it all. Mr. McVicar kept beside her (the inspector led), helping her up long, dark stairways, and down into pit-like cellars, and through dank halls full of poor, little gaping children. When noon came they sought a near-by café.
It was while they were here that an extraordinary thing happened. They had gotten comfortably placed, both on the same side of a table—so that he could understand what she was saying (his glasses were off now)—when there entered, in single file, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven well-dressed young men. They seated themselves opposite Agatha and the escort. And, presently, after each had given the menu a casual glance, all began to talk at once—on their fingers!
Agatha opened her eyes. “Everyone of them d— and d—!” she said to herself. “Is this a d— and d— café?” Her eyes roved from waiter to waiter.
But the seven young men were evidently from Mr. McVicar’s institution, for they caught sight of him a moment later, bowed to him in great surprise, and began to make him finger-signs.
He bowed in return, but he regarded them darkly and made no return signs.