She touched him lightly on the arm and then stepped into the car. A moment later she and Claire Petrovskey were whisked around the corner and into Park Avenue.
The Italian stared after them with a strange expression. He settled with the taxi-driver, then turned to reënter the house. He would telephone immediately to Ellen and tell her to procure another couple for the night’s festivities. A walk down the length of Fifth Avenue, a solitary tâble d’hôte at some obscure Italian restaurant were more to his mood.
CHAPTER XI
ANNE’S VIGIL
As the car swerved from the curb, Anne sank against the cushions. Turning to the immobile figure at her side, she questioned anxiously.
“Is Alexis—is Mr. Petrovskey very ill?”
The shadowy form retained its frozen quiescence.
“He is perhaps dying,” said the light, harsh voice.
“Oh!” Anne’s cry was involuntary. Conscious of the flood of hatred beating against her, she steeled herself. When she spoke her voice was well under control.
“Surely you can’t mean that! Why, what is the matter?”
The delicate profile beside her, momentarily illuminated by a street lamp, acquired the translucent hardness of carved, white jade. “He has pneumonia.” Once more in shadow, the mask turned towards Anne. A pair of eyes gleamed from out of dark caverns. “It developed several days ago. He had had a bad cough for about two weeks, and of course had taken no care of it.” The dull voice ceased.