“Yes, that Dunois girl is here still. It’s a pity K17 lost his nerve.... Well, you better look out for her and for Barres, too. They’re as thick as last year honey!
“All right, I’ll let you know anything. Bye-bye.”
Barres, walking leisurely up the street, kept watching for Soane somewhere along the block; but could see nobody in the darkness, resembling him.
Outdoors the July night was cooler; young girls, hatless, in summer frocks, gathered on stoops or strolled through the lamplit dark. Somewhere a piano sounded, not unpleasantly.
In the branch post office he mailed his letters, turned to go out, and caught sight of Soane passing along the sidewalk just outside.
And with him was the one-eyed man, Max Freund—the man who, perhaps, had robbed Dulcie of half the letter.
His first emotion was sheer anger, and it started him toward the door, bent on swift but unconsidered vengeance.
But before this impulse culminated in his collaring the one-eyed man, sufficient common sense came to the rescue. A row meant publicity, and an inquiry by 255 authority would certainly involve the writer of the partly stolen letter—Thessalie Dunois.
Cool and collected now, but mad all through, Barres continued to follow Soane and Freund, dropping back several yards to keep out of sight, and trying to make up his mind what he ought to do.