"Oh, I should say about thirty-one or two. Here he comes now. 'Lo, Jim!"
"Hello! Where's Ford? He gave me a ticket to the theater to-night, and I want to punch his head. What's drama coming to, anyhow? Cigarettes and booze and mismated couples. Can't they find good enough things out of doors? Oh, I know. They cater to a lot of fools who believe that what they see is an expression of high life in New York and London. And it's rot, plain rot. It's merely the scum of the boiling pot. Any old housewife would skim it off and chuck it into the slops. Life? Piffle!"
"What's the grouch?"
"Looking for the dramatic job?"
"No. I've just been wondering how far these theatrical managers can go without slitting the golden goose."
Norton sought his desk and began rummaging the drawers. He was not hunting for anything; he was merely passing away the time. By and by, when the time no longer served, he pulled his chair over to the window and sat down, staring at stars such as Copernicus never dreamed of. Ships going down to sea, ferries swooping diagonally hither and thither, the clockwork signs; but he took no note of these marvels of light.
"Not at home!" he muttered.
He had called, written, telephoned. No use. The door remained shut, Jones answered the telephone, and the letters came back. He began to think very deeply concerning the Perigoff woman. Had she played a trick? Had that fainting spell been buncombe for his benefit as well as Florence's? But he had not a shadow of a proof. The thing that puzzled him equally with this was that all attempts against his life had miraculously ceased; no safes thundered down in front of him, and no autos tried to carve him in two. The only thing that kept him active was the daily call of Jones by wire. Miss Florence was well; that was all Jones was permitted to say.
Restlessly Norton spurned his chair and walked over to the telephone booth. It was midnight. He might or might not be able to get Jones. But almost instantly a voice said, "What is it?"
"Jones?"