“Pshaw!” said Donnelly, with a laugh. “It’s only this.” And from his pocket he brought out the rabbit.
“Oh, my wabbit!” cried the little girl, with a sort of solemn ecstasy.
“Hi! Taxi!” called Donnelly, suddenly, and a cab going by slowed down, turned, skidding a little on the wet street, and drew up to the curb. Without delay, Ross put the child inside, and got in after her, but Donnelly remained standing on the curb, holding open the door. Light streamed from the shop windows, but his back was turned toward it; his face was in darkness; he stood like a statue in the downpour.
“There’s some funny things about this case—” he observed.
Ross said nothing.
“Mighty funny!” Donnelly pursued. “And, by the way—” He leaned into the cab. “I’ve seen a good deal of you today, but I don’t believe you’ve told me your name.”
It seemed to Ross for a moment that he could not speak. But, at last, with a great effort, he said:
“Ives.”
“Ah!” said Donnelly.
Ross waited and waited.