"To be
looked upon as 'dead,' to be near to the rascal who smiles to think that
I am in my grave.... And everything so dull and prosaic on the surface!
Yes, I have friends who will aid me in the business. Some day I may be
able to thank you face to face, to tell you how I managed to see your
plot. May I?"
The question came quite eagerly, almost imploringly. In the darkness
Steel felt a hand trembling on his breast, a cool, slim hand, with many
rings on the fingers. Steel took the hand and carried it to his lips.
"Nothing would give me greater pleasure," he said. "And may you be
successful. Good-night."
"Good-night, and God bless you for a real gentleman and a true friend. I
will go out of the room first and put the lights up afterwards. You will
walk away and close the door behind you. The newspaper cutting! Thanks.
And once more good-night, but let us hope not good-bye."
She was gone. Steel could hear the distant dying swish of silk, the
rustling of the portiere, and then, with a flick, the lights came up
again. Half-blinded by the sudden illumination Steel fumbled his way to
the door and into the street.
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