This being Sunday morning, Dutch House was decorously dull to the
street; the doors to the bar closed, the lights within low and drowsy;
even the side door, giving access to the "restaurant," was closed much
of the time--when, that is to say, it wasn't swinging to admit an
intermittent flow of belated casuals and habitues of both sexes.
A row of vehicles lined the curb: nighthawk taxicabs for the most
part, with one or two four-wheelers, as many disreputable and
dilapidated hansoms, and (aside from that in which P. Sybarite had
arrived) a single taxicab of decent appearance. This last stood, with
door ajar, immediately opposite the side entrance, its motor pulsing
audibly--evidently waiting under orders similar to those issued by P.
Sybarite.
Now as the latter advanced to enter Dutch House, shadows appeared on
the ground glass of the side door; and opening with a jerk, it let out
a gush of fetid air together with Respectability on the
prowl--Respectability incognito, sly, furtive of air, and in
noticeable haste.
He paused for a bare instant on the threshold; affording P. Sybarite
opportunity for a good, long look.
"Two-thirty," said Respectability brusquely over his shoulder.
The man behind him growled affirmation: "Two-thirty--don't worry: I'll
be on the job."
"And take care of that boy."
"Grab it from me, boss, when he wakes up, he won't know where he's
been.
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