As before a little knot of curious people stood in front of the house gazing in. The glimpses they caught of beautiful women and brave men were a revelation to them. It was like looking into Paradise. Otherwise the street was quiet.
A train boomed past on the elevated road below. Eric looked at his watch. It was a quarter past nine.
Three-quarters of an hour still remained, and then would come the grand climax.
He began to breathe easier, for time was passing, and he felt sure their plans would come out all right.
Sauntering to the corner he saw the hack still there as he had left it.
The driver was sitting inside now.
He knew his orders and only waited for the proper time to arrive.
Where was Prescott?
Eric had expected to see him scouting around the Leslie mansion, but if the artist was there he had kept his person well concealed. Not yet had Eric doubted the motives that brought the other here.
Everything seemed to fit as snugly as though it had been made for it—when a carpenter makes a neat job he dove-tails the corners, and Darrell looked upon the many little things that connected so wonderfully, as the finishing touches of the joiner.