Before Sheila could answer, Reben broke in, “At my office, at three to-morrow, if that suits you, Miss Kemble.”
She demurred feebly that they would be interrupted all the time. Reben promised absolute peace and said, with a grim finality: “That’s settled, then, Mr. Vickery. To-morrow, my office, three o’clock.”
There was such a sharp dismissal in his tone that Vickery found himself standing with his hand out in farewell before he quite realized what had lifted him from his chair.
“You’re not going?” said Sheila. “You haven’t finished your coffee.”
“I’ve had more than is good for me,” said Vickery. “Good night, and thank you a thousand times. Good night, Mr. Reben.”
As he shambled through the tables to the door Sheila said, “Nice boy.”
“So you seem to think,” Reben growled.
She stared at him again, troubled at his manner, confirmed in her suspicion, afraid of it and of him. But she said nothing.
“Want a liqueur?” he snapped.
She shook her head.