Micky pressed on at a furious pace, impatiently winking smarting eyes, puffing like a locomotive at a cigar whose end flared like a headlight. For the moment he was oblivious to his surroundings, though hurrying through a crowded, brilliantly lighted street. Mechanically he turned a corner into a darker one. A moment more and he was recalled to earth by a dry, remembered voice, a voice that broke disagreeably in upon his reverie.
"Can you give me a light?" it inquired, as Micky halted. "You seem to have enough."
Micky proffered his raging cigar and watched the man curiously as he lighted it. Oddly enough, considering O'Byrn's wide acquaintance since his brief stay in town, the two had never met. Under the dim radiance of an adjacent old street lamp, Shaughnessy's face gleamed ghastly white, the black moustache had an odd, limp droop. His weed lighted, he handed Micky's cigar back with a slight nod of acknowledgment and was about to turn away.
O'Byrn's deviltry, irrepressible and eternal, asserted itself. "You're lookin' bad, Mr. Shaughnessy," he remarked with impudent solicitude. "'Tain't good for you, this night air. Don't you go to them; you don't have to. Make 'em come to you."
For once Shaughnessy's impassive mask was disturbed, which Micky noted with impish satisfaction. To be sure, it was not much. Where many a face would have been curiously distorted, the basilisk eyes of Shaughnessy just widened and glared a moment, that was all. Then they narrowed and became expressionless, while Shaughnessy deliberately removed his cigar from his mouth and thoughtfully emitted a cloud of smoke.
"Who are you?" he inquired casually.
Micky had recourse to his card case. "Allow me," he remarked politely.
Shaughnessy glanced at it and thrust it in his vest pocket. "I've heard of you," he acknowledged. "Fine night, eh? Good evening." He moved leisurely away. O'Byrn hailed him and he turned.
"I haven't one of your cards, Mr. Shaughnessy," suggested Micky, grinning wickedly.
Shaughnessy vouchsafed him a slight, sneering smile. "I don't think you need it," he retorted, "but I'm glad, I'm sure, that you gave me yours." He passed on and turned the corner.