“Oh, murder!”
He scratched his poll aghast:
“Mother of God!” said he—“of coorse! Victoria May Alice told me—there’s been a misunderstandin’—or maybe even a partin’—or some heathen tom-noddy——”
He walked into his shop soberly.
“Mike Devlin,” said he—and he rubbed his chin ruefully: “ye’ve put your great damn foot slap into the big drum of the farcical tragedy.”
Noll strode out. In the glimmering grey of the hustling world he tramped; but the hush was alive with whispers—and the blood was jumping in him.
He caught sight at last of the distant back of the Man of Pallid Ideals.
He turned, after some walking, into one of those silent streets that give off the noisy thoroughfare of the roaring city, and by the silence he knew that he was in a street where lodgings are. At once he slackened pace, for, a hundred strides before him, walked slowly the slender Man of Pallid Ideals, who at last halted, stood a little while looking up at a window across the street, sighed, and passed brooding into the twilight beyond.
Not so Noll.
He marked the halting-place, paced the distance, and swung round towards the house opposite.