"'Tis gone, sor, an'—."
"All right. But," with a rueful smile, "I'll take the liberty of countermanding Mr. Snaith's order. If he should call again, O'Hagan, I very much want to see him."
"Faith, and 'tis mesilf will have a worrud or two to whispher in the ear av him, sor," announced O'Hagan grimly.
"I'm afraid the opportunity will be lacking: … You may fix me a hot bath now, O'Hagan, and put out my evening clothes. I'll dine at the club to-night and may not be back."
And, rising, Maitland approached a mirror; before which he lingered for several minutes, cataloguing his injuries. Taken altogether, they amounted to little. The swelling of his wrists and ankles was subsiding gradually; there was a slight redness visible in the corners of his mouth, and a shadow of discoloration on his right temple—something that could be concealed by brushing his hair in a new way.
"I think I shall do," concluded Maitland; "there's nothing to excite particular comment. The bulk of the soreness is inside."
* * * * *
Seven P. M.
"Time," said the short and thick-set man casually, addressing no one in particular.
He shut the lid of his watch with a snap and returned the timepiece to his waistcoat pocket. Simultaneously he surveyed both sides of the short block between Seventh and St. Nicholas Avenues with one comprehensive glance.