It was this reactional delay, then, which bogged him down at the decisive moment. By the time he jarred himself into action and twisted around on the stool, the girls had already moved away. One of them, in fact, was well along in the act of handing over the cash for a copy of the Saturday Morning Call to the cashier by the door.
"Hey!" Fleetwood said weakly. "Here, there...!"
But time had drained out. The girl completed her transaction with the cashier, joined her friend at the door, and the two of them legged it in unison out to the sidewalk and into the burgeoning sunset. By the time Fleetwood had reached the doorway they had lost themselves in the crowd.
"Hey," Fleetwood murmured with limp regret and turned back to find that the girl had returned to the counter and placed a steaming cup at his place. She was watching him with worried interest.
"You want this joe, don't you?" she asked as he returned.
"Yes," Fleetwood said, settling himself and gazing dully into the cup. "Yes, I want it." He lifted the cup and sampled the coffee which suddenly tasted quite familiar to him. But the greater part of his mind was concerned with other things. He looked up at the waitress who was still standing before him.
"I wonder," he said, "did you notice those two young women who were just here? The ones standing there at the magazine racks?"
The girl inclined her head thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded.
"Clare and Connie?" she said.
"You know them?"