He rushed in, while Mendel put his arms round Thompson and laid him neatly on the floor. In a moment Logan was out again.
“You’re a shocking bad painter,” he said to Thompson, “but she isn’t there.”
They left the house and walked slowly back to the hotel. Logan clung to Mendel’s arm, saying:—
“It’s my fault. She said if ever I knocked her about she’d clear out. Do you mind walking about with me? I couldn’t go to bed. I couldn’t sleep.”
All night they walked about; going back to the hotel every half hour to see if she was there, talking of anything and everything, even politics, to keep Logan’s mind from the fixed horrible idea that had taken possession of it. They saw the sun come out, and the workers hurrying along the streets, and the waiters in the cafés push up the heavy iron shutters that had only been pulled down an hour or two before, and the market women with their baskets, and the tramcars glide and jolt along, the shops open and the girls go chattering to their work through the long, leisurely Parisian day.
They returned at eight and had breakfast. At half-past nine Oliver appeared, smiling and serene.
“We did have fun last night! You missed something, I tell you.”
“Where have you been?” cried Logan. “I’ve been looking for you all night.”
“What a fool you are! I can look after myself.”