"Take it from me," he said genially, "if we ever come back, we'll kill."
In the street once more, they lingered on the sidewalk for a moment or two before separating. Clydesdale drew off his split and ruined gloves, rolled them together and tossed them into the passing handcart of a street sweeper.
"Unpleasant job," he commented.
"I don't think you'll have it to do over again," smiled Desboro.
"No, I think not. And thank you for yielding so gracefully to me. It was my job. But you didn't miss anything; it was like hitting a feather bed. No sport in it—but had to be done. Well, glad to have seen you again, Desboro."
They exchanged grips; both flushed a trifle, hesitated, nodded pleasantly to each other, and separated.
At the office Cairns inspected him curiously as he entered, but, as Desboro said nothing, he asked no questions. A client or two sauntered in and out. At one o'clock they lunched together.
"I understand you're coming up for the week-end," said Desboro.
"Your wife was good enough to ask me."