“I have rooms here,” he reminded Devlin, “by all means search them.”
“I have,” snapped the other, showing his teeth.
“I regret I didn’t bring my golf clubs,” Trent taunted him.
“I hope I’ll put you in a place where they don’t play golf,” Devlin cried angrily. “I’m wise to you.”
“It’s good he’s wise to something,” shouted Miss Richards.
“Isn’t it?” Trent returned equably. “I’ve had no experience of it so far.” He resumed his seat and beckoned a waiter, “Some more coffee. Sit down, ladies, the ordeal is over.”
“Not by a long shot,” snarled Devlin, “I’ve got a search warrant to search the apartment rented by Norah Thompson and I want you, Weiller, to come with me.” He turned to the moving picture celebrities—self confessed celebrities—“as for you, you’d better beat it quick.”
Devlin’s last impression of the ornate dining room was the sight of the debonair Trent sipping his green chartreuse. Devlin ground his strong teeth when the other raised the green filled glass and drank his health.
He was not to know that in the glass invisible amid the enveloping fluid was the Takowaja emerald, slipped there in the moment of peril.