“Sor,” said he, “what way did that—lady—know I was by mesilf here this morning? Was she a friend av yer honor?”
“She was, Larry. That is to say, an acquaintance.”
“Well, what way she did know I was by mesilf——”
“Good Lord, how do I know, Larry? No, wait a minute. Yes, I do know. Mrs. Furneau told her, Larry. Why?”
“I wondered was she spyin’ on ye, sor. That’s all.” A look of comical indignation swept over his face again. “But she’s a dangerous woman, sor,” he told me earnestly.
I laughed. “All women are dangerous to you, Larry. But you’re perfectly right. Never mind, though. There’s no harm done.”
“I’m not so sure about that, sor,” said Larry.
What with listening to Larry’s views on women in general and Mrs. Fawcette in particular, while I ate lunch, it was nearly two o’clock before I had finished. Larry consumed a little more time, clearing the table, and with one thing and another, we did not leave the apartment until well after two.
We decided to leave the little car in the garage and take a taxi instead. We found one without difficulty, and at two-thirty we were in the park and on our way to the 72nd Street Gate. As we approached the Park Restaurant there, Larry stuck his head cautiously out of the window, as being less likely to be recognized than I. A moment later he was pounding on the glass to attract the driver’s attention.
The taxi drew up, Larry flung the door open, and in a moment Moore and I had gripped hands again. The pleasure of that handshake brought home to me the fact that I had missed him badly of late.