The man grinned and dropped into a big chair opposite Cayley and lighted a cigar. Then his glance wandered out of the window. Cayley put the bunch of letters in his pocket and yawned.
"By Jove, there's a peach over there," said the man. Cayley turned and looked.
"In front of the shoe store. See?"
She was standing, looking idly into the show window—a figure in gray and red. Scarlet cuffs, scarlet collar, scarlet silk gloves. Her form was trim and her carriage jaunty.
It was Fancy Gray—drifting. She stood, hesitating, and shot a glance up to the second story of the club house where the men sat. She caught Cayley's eye and smiled, showing her white teeth. Her eyebrows went up. Then she turned down the street and walked slowly away.
"Say," said the man, "was that for you or for me, Blan?"
"I expect it must have been for me. Good day."
"Something doing? Well, good luck!"
Cayley walked briskly out of the room, got his hat, and ran down the front steps. Fancy was already half a block ahead of him, nearing Kearney Street. He caught up with her before she turned the corner.
"I've been looking for you for three weeks," he began.