"Oh, the judge is a good sport!" said Lindaberry. "Well, where's De Lima?"
"Above Ninety-sixth, I believe, sorr!"
"Good! I'll keep an eye out. De Lima's expensive! Well, Judge, too bad you can't join us. Little bet? Now, don't worry! I'll promise nothing faster than a mile a minute until we strike the country!"
They were drawn up in the electric flare of the side entrance. Quite a group of staring white-aproned waiters, impudent newsboys, appearing like bats out of the hidden night, chauffeurs and curious creatures of the underworld hung around open-mouthed, very black and very white in the artificial region of light and shadow. Massingale turned suddenly to her, forced to his last appeal.
"Miss Baxter," he said, looking up directly, "I wouldn't insist if I didn't know the chances you are running with this madman! Believe me, it is a reckless thing to do! Miss Baxter, please don't go!"
"Please?" she repeated, looking into his eyes with a glance as cold as his own was excited.
"Yes! I ask you—I beg you not to go! You don't know—you don't understand. Mr. Lindaberry is not a safe person—now, under present conditions!"
She leaned a little toward him, modulating her voice for his ear alone.
"I'm sure, Judge Massingale," she said coldly "that I will be much safer with Mr. Lindaberry, wherever he wishes to take me, than with some other man, even in my own house, alone!"
He understood: she saw it by the hurt look in his eyes. He withdrew without further proffer.