By three o’clock in the afternoon all shops were illuminated; the south windows of the Hotel Astor across the street spread a sickly light over the old buildings of Westover Court as John Recklow entered the tiled hallway, took the stairs to the left, and went directly to his apartment.
He unlocked the door and let himself in and stood a moment in the entry shaking the snow from his hat and overcoat.
The sitting-room lamp was unlighted but he could see a fire in the grate, and Tressa Cleves seated near, her eyes fixed on the glowing coals.
He bade her good evening in a low voice; she turned her charming head and nodded, and he drew a chair to the fender and stretched out his wet shoes to the warmth.
“Is Victor still out?” he inquired.
She said that her husband had not yet returned. Her eyes were on the fire, Recklow’s rested on her shadowy face.
“Benton got his man in Chicago,” he said. “It was not Togrul Kahn.”
“Who was it?”
“Only a Swami fakir who’d been preaching sedition to a little group of greasy Bengalese from Seattle.... I’ve heard from Selden, too.”
She nodded listlessly and lifted her eyes.