Aware that he would probably do wisely to rise and flee the place, he
none the less lingered, vastly intrigued and more than half inclined
to see the affair through to the end.
His confused reverie was presently interrupted by the sound of the
woman's high, clear voice at a telephone located (he fancied)
somewhere in the hallway of the second story.
"Hello! Columbus, seven, four hundred, please.... Hello--Mason?...
Taxicab, please--Mrs. Jefferson Inche.... Yes--charge....
Yes--immediately.... Thank you!"
A moment later she reappeared on the stairs, carrying a wrap of some
sort over her arm: a circumstance which caused P. Sybarite uneasily to
wonder if she meant to push her notorious indifference to convention
to the limit of going out in a taxicab with no other addition to her
airy costume than a cloak.
But when she again entered the "den," it proved to be a man's coat and
soft hat that she had found for him.
"Get up," she ordered imperiously, "and change to these before you get
pinched for impersonating an officer. I've called a taxi for you, and
this is what I want you to do: go to Dutch House--that's a dive on
Fortieth Street--"
"I've heard of it," nodded P. Sybarite. "Any sober man who stays away
from it is almost perfectly safe, I believe."
"I'll back you to take care of yourself," said the lady. "Ask for Red
November.... You know who he is?"
"The gangster? Yes.
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