“Well, I see by your face, Gordon, that something has happened. What?” she whispered as they took the floor.
“Something good. Old Homfray is dead!”
“Dead!” gasped the woman. “But you didn’t do it—eh?”
“No. I might have done. You know what I intended to do if he cut up rough—but luck came to my aid. The old hypocrite died suddenly from heart disease, I think. At any rate, he got into a passion and sank into his chair and expired. And then I quietly retired and drove back here to town. Nobody saw me. Luck—eh?”
“By Jove! yes. That relieves us of a great deal of worry, doesn’t it?” said the woman. “It’s the best bit of news I’ve heard for years. While the old man lived there was always a risk—always a constant danger that he might throw discretion to the winds and give us away.”
“You’re quite right, Freda. He was the only person in the world I feared.”
“And yet you defied him!” she remarked. “That is the only way. Never let your enemy suspect that you are frightened of him,” said the stout, beady-eyed man in the navy-blue suit.
“What about the young pup?” asked the woman in a low voice as they danced together over the excellent floor, while yellow-haired, under-dressed women who bore on their countenances the mark of cocaine-taking, and prosperous, vicious-looking men, both young and old, sat at the little tables, laughing, drinking and looking on.
“He knows nothing, and he’s going to be useful to us.”
“But he’s very deeply in love with Elma.”