"Well, what shall it be?" asked Farrell, a
trifle faintly. Jack, like the Tar-Baby, kept on saying nothing.
The waiter looked about him, and fetched back his attention politely.
"What shall it be?" Farrell repeated. Then, as Jack stared quietly
at the table, not answering, "Go and attend to the next table," said
he to the man. "You can come back in three minutes." The waiter
went. "Now," said Farrell, laying down the napkin he had unfolded,
"are you going to speak?"
Foe picked up the card again and studied it.
"Yes or no, damn you?" demanded Farrell. "Here and now I'll have an
end to this monkeying--Yes, or no?" he cried explosively.
Foe pointed a finger at the chair from which Farrell had sprung up.
"I won't!" protested Farrell, and wrenched himself away. "Here's the
end of it, and I'm shut of you!"
He dragged himself to the door. Foe, still studying the card through
his glasses, did not even trouble to throw a glance after him.
Once in the street, Farrell felt his chain broken: he hailed a cab,
and was driven off to his hotel. There he packed, paid his bill, and
vanished with his grip into the night, leaving his portmanteau behind
with a word that he would return for it.
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