“It's about Miss Ethel,” Peterson went on, desperately, laying an appealing hand on Hoag's massive knee. “The last time I saw her at your house I thought she was friendly enough, but something is wrong now, sure. She won't write often, and when she does her letters are cold and stiff. I got one from her mother to-day. Mrs. Mayfield seems bothered. She doesn't seem fully to understand Miss Ethel, either.”
“I don't know anything about it.” Hoag felt compelled to make some reply. “The truth is, I haven't had time to—to talk to Eth' lately, and—”
“But you told me that you would.” Peterson's stare was fixed and full of suppressed suspense. “I've been depending on you. My—my pride is—I may say that my pride is hurt, Mr. Hoag. My friends down here consider me solid with the young lady, and it looks as if she were trying to pull away and leave me in the lurch. I don't see how I can stand it. I've never been turned down before and it hurts, especially when folks have regarded the thing as practically settled. Why—why, my salary has been raised on the strength of it.”
Hoag's entire thoughts were on the communication he had just received. He expected every moment to see his assassin stalk across the tiled floor from one of the many entrances and fire upon him. Peterson's voice and perturbation were as vexatious as the drone of a mosquito. Of what importance was another's puppy love to a man on the gallows looking for the last time at the sunshine? He rose to his feet; he laid his hand on the young man's shoulder.
“You must let me alone to-night,” he bluntly demanded. “I've got a matter of important business on my mind and I can't talk to you. You must, I tell you; you must!”
“All right, all right!” Peterson stared and gasped as if smitten in the face. “I'll see you in the morning. You'll come around to the bank, won't you?”
“Yes, yes—in the morning. I'll be round.” When he was alone Hoag strolled back to the bar-room. He familiarly nodded to the barkeeper, and smiled mechanically as he called for whisky. He drank, lighted a cigar, leaned for an instant against the polished counter, and then, seeing a man entering whom he knew and wished to avoid, he turned back into the foyer. Presently he went to the front door and glanced up and down the street. A cab was at the edge of the sidewalk, and the negro driver called out to him:
“Ca'iage, boss? Any part de city.”
“All right, I'm with you,” Hoag went to the cab, whispered an address, got in, and closed the door. With a knowing smile the negro mounted his seat and drove away. At the corner he turned down Decatur Street, and presently drove into a short street leading toward the railroad. Here the houses on either side of the way had red glass in the doors, through which crimson rays of light streamed out on the pavement. The cab was about to slow up at one of the houses when Hoag rapped on the window. The driver leaned down and opened the door.
“What is it, boss?”