“No, sir,” said she. “It’s rented.”
“Perhaps I could buy the renters off,” suggested Jones. “Could I see them?”
“Both out,” she answered shortly. “And I don’t believe you could get the room from them, for they’re all fixed up to take photographs of the parade.”
“Indee-ee-eed,” drawled Average Jones, in accents so prolonged, even for him, that Waldemar’s interest flamed within him. “I—er—ra—ra-aather hoped—er—when do you expect them back?”
“About four o’clock.”
“Thank you. Please tell them that—er—Mr. Nick Karboe called.”
“For heaven’s sake, Average,” rumbled Waldemar, as they regained the pavement, “why did you use the dead man’s name? It gave me a shiver.”
“It’ll give them a worse one,” replied the Ad-Visor grimly. “I want to prepare their nerves for a subsequent shock. If you’ll meet me here this evening at seven, I think I can promise you a queer spectacle.”
“And meantime?”
“On that point I want your advice. Shall we make a sure catch of two hired assassins who don’t amount to much, or take a chance at the bigger game?”