“Believe what?”
“Look here—you've got to know, and protect me if any unexpected thing should come up. We're going on a little trip, Peter.” Hy was solemn now, but his voice was uncertain. “Betty and I, Pete. To-morrow. On the night boat.”
Peter was silent. Hy stood there for what seemed rather a long time, then suddenly bolted back into the bedroom. In the morning he was less expansive, merely asking Peter to respect his confidence. Which request Peter gloomily resented as he resented Hy's luck. The fortunate young man then packed a hand-bag and hurried off to breakfast at the club.
Peter tried to work on an empty stomach, but the effort gave him a headache, so he made himself a cup of coffee.
He walked the streets for a while with increasing restlessness; then, to soothe his nerves, went to the club and listlessly read the magazines. At noon he avoided his friends, but managed to eat a small luncheon. At two o'clock he went out aimlessly and entered the nearest moving-picture theater. At five he wandered back to the club and furtively asked the telephone boy if there' had been any messages for him. There had not.
He permitted himself to be drawn into a riotous game of Kelly pool. Also he permitted himself a drink or two.
During the evening, I regret to note, he got himself rather drunk and went home in a taxicab. This was unusual with Peter and not successful. It intensified his self-consciousness and his sorrow, made him even gloomier. But it did help him to sleep.
He was awakened, just before nine o'clock on Sunday morning, by the banging of a door. Then Hy, dusty, bedraggled, haggard of face, rushed in and stared at him.
Peter decided it was a dream and rolled over.
Hy shook him. “For God's sake, Pete!” he cried. How hoarse he was! “Where is she? Have you heard anything?”