Hawksley's body relaxed. A lump came into his throat. Here was a friend,
anyhow, ready to serve him though he was thousands of miles away.
When he could trust himself to speak he said: "Sorry. It will be
impossible to accept the hospitality at present. I shall call in a few
days, however, to establish my identity. Thank you. Good evening."
"Just a moment, sir. I may have an important cable to transmit to you.
It would be wise to leave me your address, sir."
Hawksley hesitated a moment. After all, he could trust this perfect old
servant, whom he remembered. He gave the address.
As he came out of the booth the girl stretched forth an arm to detain
him. He stopped.
"I'm sorry I spoke like that," she said. "But I'm so tired! I've been on
my feet all day, and everybody's been barking and growling; and if I'd
taken in as many nickels as I've passed out in change the boss would be
rich."
"Give me a dozen of those roses there." She sold flowers also. "The pink
ones. How much?" he asked.
"Two-fifty."
He laid down the money. "Never mind the box. They are for you. Good
evening."
The girl stared at the flowers as Ali Baba must have stared at the cask
with rubies.
"For me!" she whispered. "For nothing!"
Her eyes blurred. She never saw Hawksley again; but that was of no
importance. She had a gentle deed to put away in the lavender of
recollection.
Outside Hawksley could see nothing of the man who had bought the cigars.
At any rate, further dodging would be useless. He would go directly
to his destination. Old Gregor had sent him a duplicate key to the
apartment. He could hide there for a day or two; then visit Rathbone's
banker at his residence in the night to establish his identity. Gregor
could be trusted to carry the wallet and the pouch to the bank. Once
these were walled in steel half the battle would be over. He would have
nothing to guard thereafter but his life. He laughed brokenly. Nothing
but the clothes he stood in. He never could claim the belongings he had
been forced to leave in that hotel back yonder. But there was loyal old
Gregor. Somebody would be honestly glad to see him. The poor old chap!
Astonishing, but of late he was always thinking in English.
He hailed the first free taxicab he saw, climbed in, and was driven
downtown. He looked back constantly. Was he followed? There was no way
of telling. The street was alive with vehicles tearing north and south,
with frequent stoppage for the passage of those racing east and west.
The destination of Hawksley's cab was an old-fashioned apartment house
in Eightieth Street.