“Grand Central!” called the guard, and Storm braced himself. He must go through with it now; the moment had come.
He made his way out into the vast terminal and mingled with a crowd of commuters pouring through one of the gates from an arriving train. His hat, with its decorous mourning band, was pulled low over his eyes, and he averted his face, fearing every minute to feel a hand upon his shoulder and hear his name uttered by some acquaintance; but he passed on unmolested until he found himself confronted by a red-capped porter.
“Carry yo’ bag, suh? Taxi, suh?”
Storm eyed the dusky, stolid countenance keenly for a moment, and then made his decision.
“No, I want the bag checked. Take it to the parcel room, will you?”
“It’ll be a dime, suh,” the porter announced, taking over the burden nonchalantly.
Storm produced the dime and a quarter more.
“Get me the check as quick as you can. I’m in a hurry.”
The porter scurried off, intent on finishing the job and obtaining a new client, and Storm followed as well as he was able through the crowd, keeping his eyes upon the bobbing red cap ahead. He saw the porter worm his way through a queue of people waiting before a long counter, saw the bag slammed down upon it to be grasped by a hand from the other side and disappear. A cry of relief surged up from his heart, and the impulse to turn and flee before the porter could return with the check almost overmastered him, but he fought it down. No question must be raised now about the bag; the porter must have no cause to recall his appearance later.
“Here yo’ is, suh. Want a taxi?”