The signal was answered almost instantly. The lamps of one of the motionless motor cars shot a quick glare outward over the avenue, and in another moment it was moving moderately in that direction.
The man with a searchlight turned quickly and entered the French window. He passed directly back of Dorson, and, without stopping, whispered hurriedly:
“Now, Dorson, be quick! Get in your work!”
Dorson started as if stung. He did not recognize the bearded man, but there was no mistaking his voice, that fierce, sibilant hiss that he had heard at the road house—the threatening voice of Professor Karl Graff.
Dorson instantly pulled himself together, nevertheless, and nerved himself for what he had undertaken. He took the celluloid box from his pocket, concealing it in his hand, and removed the cover, at the same time walking toward Mrs. Thurlow, at whom he had been gazing when he heard Graff’s threatening command.
When nearly back of her, Dorson stooped to the floor and pretended to pick up a handkerchief—which he had deftly removed from the box, quickly replacing the latter in his pocket.
“Pardon me,” said he, stepping in front of her. “You have dropped your handkerchief, Aunt Clara.”
The colonel talking with her turned at once to his partner, and they whirled away amid other dancing couples.
“My handkerchief, Jack?” Mrs. Thurlow took it, but with a look of surprise.
“I think so.” Dorson drew back a step and with one hand covered his mouth and nostrils.