“Not now,” reproved Thara, as they crossed the lobby. “Later, when you have the money. To get to the Sans Souci, you walk to the east, two blocks. Good-night.”
Thara was turning away when she spoke and Phil turned too, hoping that the girl hadn’t vanished like Arlene. Momentarily, Phil saw an elevator with its door open, but Thara hadn’t stepped into it; the only darkish face that he saw belonged to a stolid, brawny man who looked as wide as the door itself, and his features were tawny, compared to Thara’s delicate olive.
Odd people, these New Yorkers; perhaps Phil was right in that supposition, but he shouldn’t have included Dom Yuble in that category. The Caribbean sea captain was purely a portion of Manhattan’s passing show.
Then, as the elevator door clanged shut, Phil saw Thara over by the newsstand, giving him a parting smile so thoroughly alluring that he hoped she wouldn’t vanish.
Which reverted Phil’s thoughts to Arlene as he went out the street door. Wondering if anybody chanced to remember the missing blonde, Phil glanced to his left and saw a most amazing thing.
Drawn up to the curb was an old-fashioned hansom cab, its driver half-asleep on the high box. As Phil approached and paused, the man opened one eye beneath his old plug hat and looked down. Figuring that from such an elevation the hansom driver should have witnessed much. Phil called up:
“See anything of a girl about an hour ago? A blonde, wearing lilacs - like this?”
Plucking the blossom from his buttonhole, Phil showed it, then tossed the wilted flower away. The hackie waved his whip toward a doorway at his right; then wagged it across the street toward the border of the park.
“She came out and somebody called a victoria for her,” stated the hansom driver. “She was kind of breathless, like she needed fresh air. This hansom was too cramped for her; that’s why she took an open carriage.”
“Where did she go?”