At the same time he flashed
a like warning to his two followers at the next table; and the legs of
their chairs grated on the tiled flooring as they shifted position,
making ready for the signal to "mix in."
At this, P. Sybarite rose and nonchalantly moved over to November; his
approach remarked by the latter with an evil leer; by the woman with a
start of consternation; by the boy with sudden suspicion. Indubitably
this last was beginning to question a hospitality that would not
permit him to do as to him seemed best. With relief P. Sybarite noted
symptoms of this dawning distrust. It made the problem simpler, to
have the boy alive to his peril.
Pausing, P. Sybarite met November's glare with eyes informed with an
expression amazingly remote and dispassionate, and in a level and
toneless voice addressed him.
"I've a message for you--a hurry call--won't keep--"
"Well?" snapped the gangster. "What's it about? Spit it out!"
"Why, Nella says--" P. Sybarite began deliberately; and paused to
cough politely behind his hand; and leaned confidentially over the
table.
At this juncture the boy pushed back his chair and rose.
"Pardon me, m' dear," he said thickly to the woman; "'m goin' home."
"Ah, sit down," November interrupted quickly, pitching his protean
accents to a key of cajolery--"sit down and have another. What's your
hurry?"
His eyes caught the woman's.
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