“We spent the night, thank you,” said O’Leary, who had begun to be impatient for some signs of gratitude to appear.
“She lives here—you’re sure?” said Dangerfield, looking at him intently.
“Sure; opposite to you. Look for yourself,” said King O’Leary with some irritation.
Dangerfield gave him a second glance, and then went slowly to Inga Sonderson’s door and bent over the card carefully.
“Yes; that’s right,” he said, nodding, and went into his room, as though that were, the only point to be settled.
“Well, you certainly are a queer rooster,” said King O’Leary to himself, so perplexed that he remained scratching his head. The door opened, and Dangerfield reappeared, coming toward him with extended hand.
“Please forgive me. What I wanted to say—what I came in to say, was to thank you.”
“Oh, forget it!” said O’Leary, instantly mollified. He felt the grasp of the other man’s hand, and liked him better for its free, powerful hug.
“I am not—not quite myself these days,” said Dangerfield, with boyish frankness. “Don’t mind what I do—and I hope we will be good friends.”
As he said this, there came a look of pain across the eyes, a look of inward distress that struck O’Leary, who went back into the studio, however, without response.