“But—but—that's absurd! It couldn't act so quickly!”
The Worm stared; his face set perceptibly. “It has acted. He didn't take the bichloride route. He drank carbolic.”
“But that—that's awful!”
“Yes, it's awful. There's a newspaper man there, raising hell. They can't get him out—or couldn't. Now keep this straight—if you go one step up those stairs or if you try to come out and speak to Sue before I get her away, I'll break your head.”
“She'll send for me,” said Peter, sputtering.
“Perhaps,” observed Henry Bates; and swiftly left the room.
Sue Wilde returned from her brief interview with Peter. Two or three groups of early diners greeted her as she passed.
Jacob Zanin watched her—her brisk little nod and quiet smile for these acquaintances, her curiously boylike grace, the fresh tint of her olive skin. She was a bit thin, he thought; her hard work as principal actress in the Nature Film, coupled with the confusion he knew she had passed through during that brief wild engagement to Peter Mann, had worn her down.
She had always puzzled him. She puzzled him now, as she resumed her seat, met his gaze, said: “Jacob, give me a cigarette.”
“Sue—you're off them.”