A vague semblance of a smile appeared upon his lips.
Later in the afternoon, Paget returned to his apartment and packed two large suitcases. When he had completed the operation, he entered the alcove and looked at the window shade. There he stood in prolonged indecision.
Finally he shrugged his shoulders and left the apartment. He went to the club and dined alone.
At eight o’clock, he strolled to the street and summoned a taxicab.
With all his languorous manner, Paget was secretly observant as the cab left the front of the club. He saw another cab move after him. He rubbed his chin and nodded to himself.
His cab reached the Pennsylvania Station. There, Paget threaded his way through the busy throng, and suddenly emerged at another entrance, where he hurried away in another cab.
This time, when he looked behind him, a smile of satisfaction appeared upon his face. He was confident that no taxi was on his trail.
Paget’s destination was a street in the Nineties, east of Lexington Avenue. There, he left the cab and walked several blocks, turning two or three corners.
He arrived at an old house that had been converted into an apartment. He slipped into the dingy vestibule and rang a bell. A whistle came from the speaking tube on the wall.
“Okay,” replied Paget.