Suffocating, he fled up the aisle and out into the lobby. There
he addressed himself distractedly but plainly:
"Jackass!"
Breathing heavily, he went out to the wide front steps of the
theatre and stood, sunlit Broadway swimming before him.
"Hello, Canby!"
A shabby, shaggy, pale young man, with hot eyes, checked his
ardent gait and paused, extending a cordial, thin hand, the
fingers browned at the sides by cigarettes smoked to the bitter
end. "Rieger," he said. "Arnold Rieger. Remember me at the old
Ink Club meetings before we broke up?"
"Yes," said Canby dimly. "Yes. The old Ink Club. I came out for
a breath of air. Just a breath."
"We used to settle the universe in that little back restaurant
room," said Rieger. "Not one of use had ever got a thing into
print--and me, I haven't yet, for that matter. Editors still
hate my stuff. I've kept my oath, though; I've never
compromised--never for a moment."
"Yes," Canby responded feebly, wondering what the man was
talking about. Wanda Malone was surely on the stage, now. If he
turned, walked about thirty feet, and opened a door, he would
see her--hear her speaking!
"I've had news of your success," said Rieger.
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