They waited with a sense of impending tragedy—Tootles at the table drawing nervous caricatures on a pad, Flick and Schneibel by the window, talking in low tones, O’Leary moving restlessly up and down the room. The woman had been there an hour by the watch which he jerked out every five minutes, when, all at once, they heard steps coming down the hall. O’Leary turned with a sudden start and shot over to the door, whether he believed it was Drinkwater again or whether he had some other possibility in mind. This time it was Mr. Cornelius, who, unable to contain his anxiety, had come down for news.
“Now, isn’t this a nice damn thing?” he said, in his staccato, excited way, and they noticed that his gray mustache, ordinarily so immaculate, was sadly twisted and awry. He stood there, fretting and undecided. “How long is it now since she was there?”
“Over an hour.”
Instinctively they were silent, listening. From the next room not a sound came to them.
“You hear anything?” said the baron.
“Once. They were getting up pretty high,” said O’Leary. “I gave them a rap or two on the wall.”
“I don’t like it—une sale affaire! Que diable vient-elle faire ici?” said the baron, twitching at the tuft under his chin.
“Do you think some one had better break it up?” said O’Leary, who showed a good deal of uneasiness, for him.
Tootles drew a big breath, shoved away his pad, and went to listen by the wall.