“No. 16, Rue de Belville, Villancourt.” The tones had warmed.
“Thanks. I’ll report to you presently,” Cobden said.
“Sure you don’t want me—or one of us to go along with you?” Ames persisted.
“I’ll see what I can do alone first, if you don’t mind.”
XXXIV
THE HOUSE OF DUCIER
QUEER drama, from eight to twelve that night in the little house of Ducier. Four hours—as long as an uncut opera! The sick man moaned, and interrupted everything, calling to Dicky Cobden:
“For the love of God, don’t go ’way and leave me here! I’m done for, if you leave me alone again.... Oh, Cobden, Cobden——”
The daughter wept. It was her entire part. She had a brown mole upon her ruddy rounded cheek, and very white small teeth in gums of a red that Dicky had never seen before except in dental advertisements. She was made of little curves, and all of them were required in the art of her weeping.
“What’s the matter?” Dicky asked her, during a halt in the proceedings.
“You are taking him away!”