“About Iverson. About his being dead?”
“Why, of course, I am! I....”
“How did you hear of it?”
“A friend of mine in Paris....”
“Will you give me the address and let me write to her?”
“Him. It’s a gentleman,” said Miss Gosorkus with a smirk.
“Give me his address then.”
He had taken out a note-book and a fountain pen, and sat waiting while Miss Gosorkus somewhat reluctantly gave the information. Then he got up and looked about for Rosaleen. She was not there. He approached his aunt.
“Order a taxi when you’re ready to go,” he said, in a tone designed to discourage questions. Then said good-bye curtly to Miss Waters, and hurried off.
It was raining fiercely when he reached the street, but he felt nevertheless obliged to walk. He set off across the Square and up Fifth Avenue, a solitary figure in the broad and deserted street.