For one moment Romarin stood; the next, he had turned and run for his life.
At the corner of the street he collided with a loafer, and only the wall saved them from going down. Feverishly Romarin plunged his hand into his pocket and brought out a handful of silver. He crammed it into the loafer's hand.
"Here—quick—take it!" he gasped. "There's a man there, by that restaurant door—he's waiting for Mr. Romarin—tell him—tell him—tell him Mr. Romarin's had an accident—"
And he dashed away, leaving the man looking at the silver in his palm.
THE CIGARETTE CASE
"A cigarette, Loder?" I said, offering my case. For the moment Loder was not smoking; for long enough he had not been talking.
"Thanks," he replied, taking not only the cigarette, but the case also. The others went on talking; Loder became silent again; but I noticed that he kept my cigarette case in his hand, and looked at it from time to time with an interest that neither its design nor its costliness seemed to explain. Presently I caught his eye.
"A pretty case," he remarked, putting it down on the table. "I once had one exactly like it."
I answered that they were in every shop window.
"Oh yes," he said, putting aside any question of rarity…. "I lost mine."