“Oh, do they?” Zada sneered. “Well, did They tell you he would be here?”
“No, but I thought—”
“Better try his office in the morning.”
“Thanks. I can't wait. What club does he affect most now?”
“Ask They,” said Zada, ending the interview with a labored yawn. But when Dyckman bowed and turned to go, her curiosity bested her indignation. “In case I should by any chance see him, could I give him your message?”
Dyckman laughed a sort of pugilistic laugh, and his self-conscious fist asserted itself.
“No, thanks, I'm afraid you couldn't. Good-by.”
Zada saw his big fingers gathering—convening, as it were, into a fist like a mace, and she was terrified for her man. She scrambled to her feet and caught Dyckman in the hall.
“What are you going to do to Mr. Cheever?”
Dyckman answered in the ironic slang, “I'm not going to do a thing to him.”