“Wanted to see you,” he said in a voice that was low but of quavering intensity. “Before I go. Got to run.”
At this point the elevator came creaking down. A messenger boy stepped out, carrying Hy's suit-case and light overcoat.
“Excuse me,” breathed Hy, “one minute.” He whispered to the boy, pressed a folded dollar bill into his hand, hurried him off. “This thing has become flatly impossible—”
“What thing?” The Worm was moodily surveying him.
“Pete. He's up there now. I'm through. I shan't go into those rooms again if he—look here! I've found a place for you and me, over in the Mews. Eight dollars less than this and more light. Tell Pete. I. can't talk to him. My God, the man's a—”
“He's a what?” asked the Worm.
“Well, you know what he did! As there's a God in the Heavens he killed old Wilde.”
“Killed your aunt!” observed the Worm, and soberly considered his friend. Hy's elaborate get-up suggested the ladies, a particular lady. The Worm looked him over again from the fluff-bound Panama to the red silk socks. A very particular lady! And he was speaking with wandering eyes and an unreal sort of emphasis; as if his anger, though doubtless genuine enough, were confused with some other emotion regarding which he was not explicit.
“Where are you going now—over to the Mews?”
Hy started at the abrupt question, took the Worm's elbow, became suddenly confidential.