“Give Mr. Cohen the box, Higgins,” Miss Lane directed, and bending forward, brought her small face close to the glass, and her hands trembled as she handled the rouge stick.
Mr. Cohen in one hand held a string of pearls that fell through his fat fingers, as if eager to escape from them. Higgins obediently placed a small box in his hand.
“Take it and get out of here,” she ordered Cohen. “Miss Lane has only got five minutes.”
Cohen turned the stub of his cigar in his mouth unpleasantly without taking the trouble to remove it. “I’ll take the box,” he said rapidly, “and when I get good and ready I’ll get out of here, but not before.”
“Now see here,” Blair began, but Miss Lane, who had finished her task, motioned him to be quiet.
“Please go out, Mr. Blair,” she said. “Please go out. Mr. Cohen is here on business and I really can’t see anybody just now.”
Behind the Jew Higgins looked up at Dan and he understood—but he didn’t heed her warning; nothing would have induced him to leave Letty Lane like this.
“I’m not going, though, Miss Lane,” he said frankly. “I’ve got an appointment with you and I’m going to stay.”
As he did so the other people in the room took form for him: a blind beggar with a stick in his hand, and by his side a small child wrapped in a shawl. With relief Dan saw that Poniotowsky was absent from the party.
Cohen opened the box, took its contents out and held up the jewels. “This,” he said, indicating a string of pearls, “is all right, Miss Lane, and the ear-drops. The rest is no good. I’ll take or leave them, as you like.”