That is their hell.
From the club Smull called up his limousine.
When the doorman announced it, Smull threw aside the evening paper, took a look at his damaged eye in a mirror, put on hat and overcoat, and went out to where his car stood.
“You know where,” he said to his chauffeur, “—and stop somewhere for the evening papers.”
A newsboy on 42d Street supplied the papers. Smull continued to read all the way to Jane Street. But when his car drew up along the east curb of Greenwich Avenue, he laid aside the papers and settled back to watch.
Through the early October dusk, illuminated shop windows and street arc-lights shed conflicting rays and shadows over passers-by.
Smull’s vision, too, was impaired, and he squinted intently at every taxi, watching for one that would turn into Jane Street.
He could see the front of the house where Eris lived. He could see, also, that her windows were unlighted. It was evident that she had not yet arrived.
He hadn’t the least idea what time she would appear. She had said nothing about that in her telegram to Frank Donnell. Her telegram said “Saturday evening,” nothing more precise. There was nothing for him to do except to wait.