At the door of the restaurant, Leyburn turned to him with his peculiarly ungracious smile, and sniffed the sickening atmosphere of hot food.
"We've satisfied our appetites, and now we hate the smell," he said, with a laugh. "Human nature is ungrateful. By the way, you'd best go on to the Saskatchewan Railroad offices and ask for that report they promised to send me. I'll go back to the office." Then, as an afterthought: "Say," he added, with a laugh, "I'm going to send you up West later. Along the line. To do some—talking. But you'll need to cut all that stuff right out. I mean the ideal racket. So long."
He turned sharply away, and hurried down the heat-laden street.
Left alone, Frank looked after him. He shook his head.
"He's a good feller," he said to himself. "But he's wrong—dead wrong—in some things."
At that moment somebody bumped into him, and he turned to apologize. Seeing it was a woman, he raised his hat. Then an exclamation, half joyous, half of dismay, broke from him.
"Phyl!" he cried. "You? In Toronto?"
In her turn the girl started and stared.
"Frank!" she cried incredulously. Then, regardless of the passers-by: "Thank God, I've found you! Oh, Frank, I'm so—so glad. We have been hunting Toronto these weeks; and now—now——"
"We?"