Marya left the car at the mezzanine floor: Puma’s eyes were like coals for a moment.
“You know that dame?” inquired Skidder, his eyes fairly snapping.
“No.” He did not add that he had seen her at the Combat Club and knew her to belong to another man. But his black eyes were almost blazing as he stepped from the elevator, for in Marya’s insolent glance he had caught a vague glimmer of fire––merely a green spark, very faint––if, indeed, it had been there at all....
Pawling himself opened the door for them.
“Is it all right? Do we get the parcel?” were his first words.
“It’s a knock-out!” cried Skidder, slapping him on the back. “We got the land, we got the plans, we got the iron, we got the contracts!––Oh, boy!––our dough is in––go look at it and smell it for yourself! So get into the jack, old scout, and ante up, because we break ground Wednesday and there’ll be bills before then, you betcha!”
When the cocktails were brought, Puma swallowed his in a hurry, saying he’d be back in a moment, and bidding Skidder enlighten Mr. Pawling during the interim.
He summoned the elevator, got out at the mezzanine, and walked lightly into the deserted and cloister-like perspective, his shiny hat in his hand.
And saw Marya standing by the marble ramp, looking down at the bustle below.