“No.”
Quentin went to the balcony window and opened it wide. He jumped to the other side of the railing, hung by his wrists, felt for the grated window of the floor below, and dropped to the sidewalk.
“Until—never!” he called from the street.
He had blood on his cheek from one of the old woman’s scratches. He washed at a fountain, dried himself on his handkerchief, and went to the Casino. He went through a door on the right, and entered a large salon which was lined with enormous mirrors.
A sleepy waiter approached him.
“Do you wish something, Don Quentin?” he asked.
“Yes; put out that light as if there were no one here.”
“Are you going to stay here?”
“Yes.”
“But that is not allowed.”