Angelo produced two ancient plates and three large cups devoid of handles. They settled themselves comfortably before the hearth to enjoy such a communion of good spirits as had never been granted them in those balmy days when purses were lined with gold.
“What is poverty when one has friends?” Angelo demanded joyously, as at last he assisted Jeanne to her feet.
“What, indeed?” Jeanne agreed heartily.
“Friday at midnight,” Angelo said solemnly, as a moment later Jeanne stood at the doorway.
“As the clock strikes the hour,” she breathed. Then she was gone.
CHAPTER XXVIII
FLORENCE CRASHES IN
At that moment Florence was involved in an affair which threatened to bring her brief career to a tragic end.
It had begun innocently enough. The back of a man’s head, seen in a crowd, had interested her. She had made a study of men’s heads. “There’s as much character to be read in the back of one’s head as in one’s face,” a psychologist had said to her. Doubting his statement, she had taken up this study to disprove his theory. She had ended by believing. For truly one may read in the carriage of the head stubbornness, indecision, mental and physical weakness; yes, and a capacity for crime.
It was this last, revealed in the neck of the man in the throng, that had set her on his trail.
She had not long to wait for confirmation. At a turn in the street the man offered her a side view. At once she caught her breath. This man was dark of visage. He had an ugly red scar on his chin.