From the darkened kitchen, Violet, her eye now fast to the keyhole, drew a short breath, and watched Rose as the sophisticated spectator watches an emotional actress when she approaches her "big scene." But Rose, still the primitive Teuton of the brewery-calendar, never quavered.
"Rafael Angelelli?" she inquired.
"I think so. He is a little Italian loafer with no work and plenty of money. You know him, of course?"
"Sure I know him. He's in an' out of here all the time. We call him 'Angel'."
"Hum. Well, there are angels and angels, so that name may fit him as well as any other. There may be nothing to it, but he does hang about O'Malley a good deal, and it might be worth your while to find out what, if anything, he knows."
"That's easy," purred Rose. "Here's success."
The pair clinked their glasses, and drained them.
"And—Rose?" began Dyker.
"Yes?"
"Neither this little fellow nor any of his crowd knows about—us?"