"I intend to," and the haggard young face turned again to the
table and forgot us.
"For Heaven's sake, Kennedy," I gasped as we went down the
stairway, "what do you mean by giving him such advice--you?"
"Not so loud, Walter. He'd have done it anyhow, I suppose, but I
want him to keep at it. This night means life or death to
Percival DeLong and his mother, too. Come on, let's get out of
this."
We passed the formidable steel door and gained the street,
jostled by the late-comers who had left the after-theatre
restaurants for a few moments of play at the famous club that so
long had defied the police.
Almost gaily Kennedy swung along toward Broadway. At the corner
he hesitated, glanced up and down, caught sight of the
furniture-van in the middle of the next block. The driver was
tugging at the harness of the horses, apparently fixing it. We
walked along and stopped beside it.
"Drive around in front of the Vesper Club slowly," said Kennedy
as the driver at last looked up.
The van lumbered ahead, and we followed it casually. Around the
corner it turned. We turned also. My heart was going like a
sledgehammer as the critical moment approached. My head was in a
whirl. What would that gay throng back of those darkened windows
down the street think if they knew what was being prepared for
them?
On, like the Trojan horse, the van lumbered.
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