“Good.”
Vidal was soon lost with his partner in the whirlpool of dancers. The music paused for an intermission.
“Shall we leave?” asked Manuel of the girl.
“Yes, let’s be going.”
Manuel was all atremble with emotion at thought that the tragic moment was approaching. They went to the check-room, got their clothes and left.
It was still snowing. The light from the electric globes over the door of the Frontón illuminated the street, which was covered with a white sheet of snow. Manuel and the girl crossed the Puerta del Sol in haste, went up the Calle de Correos, turned into the Calle de la Paz and stopped before an open gate which was lighted by the half confidential, half mysterious glow that came from a large, very lugubrious lantern.
They pushed aside a glass door and disappeared up the dark staircase.