The Worm laid a strong hand on his shoulder, held him firmly down in the chair.
“Pete,” he said—quiet, deliberate—“if you try to go up those stairs I myself will throw you down.”
Peter struggled a little. “But—but—good God! Who do you think you are! You mean to say—” He stopped short, stared up at the Worm, swallowed again. Then, “I get you!” he said. “I get you! Like the damn fool I am, I never dreamed. So you're after her, too. You, with your books, your fine disinterestedness, your easy friendly ways—you're out for yourself, behind that bluff, just like the rest of us!”
The Worm glanced about the room. Neither had raised his voice. No one was giving them any particular attention. He relaxed his grip of Peter's arm; dropped into the chair opposite; leaned over the table on folded arms; fixed his rather compelling eyes on Peter's ashen face.
“Pete,” he said, very quiet, very steady, “listen to me carefully. And don't spill any paranoia tonight. If you do—if you start anything like that crazy fight at the Muscovy—I'll take a hand myself. Now sit quiet and try to hear what I say.”
Peter was still swallowing. The Worm went steadily on. “A neighbor of the Wilde's just now called up the apartment. They thought they might get Hy Lowe to find Sue and fetch her home. But Hy-”
“He's—” began Peter.
“Yes, I saw him. He's outside here. He wants to sit on the curbstone and read the evening paper. A couple of chauffeurs were reasoning with him when I came in. I'm going to find her myself.”
“But what's happened! You—”
“Her father has taken poison. They think he is dying. His wife went right to pieces. Everything a mess—and two young children. They hadn't even got the doctor in when this man telephoned. He thinks the old boy is gone.”