“Then I guess he must have ducked somewhere else,” submitted the Hawk sapiently. “There wasn't no one went by that door—I'm giving it to you on the level.”
MacVightie's reluctant smile was a wry grimace.
“Yes, I reckon it's my mistake.” His voice lost its snarl, and his fingers groped down into his vest pocket. “Here, have a cigar,” he invited placatingly.
“Why, say—thanks”—the Hawk beamed radiantly. “Say, I——”
“All right, young fellow”—with a wave of his hand, MacVightie moved to the door. “All right, young fellow. No harm done, eh? Good-night!”
The door closed. The footsteps without grew fainter, and died away.
The Hawk, staring at the door, apostrophised the doorknob.
“Well, say, what do you know about that!” he said numbly. “I wonder what's up?”
He rose from his chair after a moment as though moved by a sort of subconscious impulse, mechanically pushed his bed back against the wall, and returned to his chair.
He dug out his pipe abstractedly, filled it, and lighted it. He gathered up the cards, shuffled them, and began to lay them out again on the table—and paused, and drummed with his fingers on the table top.