“Come, Miss Helene, there is method in this. Let us walk, as it seems to have been planned we should.”
“Is it wise? Why put yourself in their net?”
For reply, he placed in her hand the walking stick which he had so carefully guarded when they entered the apartment. It was heavier than a policeman's nightstick. As he retook it, she observed the straightening line of his lips.
“As the French say, 'We shall see what we shall see.' Please walk a little behind me, so that my right arm may be free.”
It was after two, and the street was dark. Shirley had noted an arc-light on the corner when he had entered the building—now it was extinguished. A man lurched forward as they turned into Sixth Avenue, his eyes covered by a dark cap.
“Say gent! Give a guy that's down an' out the price of a beef stew? I got three pennies an' two more'll fix me.”
“No!”
“Aw, gent, have a heart!” The man was persistent, drawing closer, as Shirley walked an with his companion, into the increasing darkness, away from the corner. Another figure appeared from a dark doorway.
“I'm broke too, Mister. Kin yer help a poor war refugee on a night like this?”
Shirley slipped his left hand inside his coat pocket and drew out a handkerchief to the surprise of the men. He suddenly drew Helene back against the wall, and stood between her and the two men.