“Romeri.” The man passed a hand before his face, as one will who brushes away a cobweb. “Romeri. Yes, I remember the case. And you, Herman McCarthey. Ah yes, Herman McCarthey. There were no stool pigeons in that case.”
“No,” said Herman, “there were none.”
Conversation lagged. Herman sat down to drink a cup of coffee. He sighed, got up, walked across the floor, and sat down again.
“Tell you what,” he said at last, looking at Johnny. “To-day’s my day off. Going out to my place at Mayfair. It’s quiet out there and mighty fine. To-morrow’s Sunday. Supposing I take Mills out there for the week-end. You come out Sunday and stay all night. Then we’ll come back to town in my car, the three of us. What do you say, Mills?”
The white-haired man rose with the air of one who has surrendered his will; like a prisoner who receives orders from a guard.
Herman McCarthey read the meaning of that act, and frowned. He did not, however, say, “Well, let’s not go.” He said nothing, but led the way. The other followed.
Johnny went with them to the sidewalk. There he stood and watched them board a west bound car. After that he turned about and walked thoughtfully back to the room. In his mind questions turned themselves over and over. “When is a man an empty shell? When is he a hopeless derelict?”
He thought of Herman McCarthey, alone out there at his country place with that terribly silent man, and was tempted to regret the steps he had taken.
He ended by drinking a second cup of coffee, then falling asleep in his chair.
* * * * * * * *