He was
talkin' kind of low, and quick, bitin' off his words like a
Englishman. An' the boys, they was starin' with their
eyes, an' their mouths, and forgettin' t' smoke, an' lettin'
their pipes an' cigars go dead in their hands, while he
talked. Talk! Sa-a-ay, girl, that guy, he could talk the
leads right out of a ruled, locked form. I didn't catch his
name. Tall, thin, unearthly lookin' chap, with the whitest
teeth you ever saw, an' eyes--well, his eyes was somethin'
like a lighted pipe with a little fine ash over the red,
just waitin' for a sudden pull t' make it glow."
"Peter!" I moaned, and buried my face in my hands.
Von Gerhard put a quick hand on my arm. But I shook it
off. "I'm not going to faint," I said, through set
teeth. "I'm not going to do anything silly. I want to
think. I want to . . . Go on, Blackie."
"Just a minute," interrupted Von Gerhard. "Does he
know where Mrs. Orme is living?"
"I'm coming t' that," returned Blackie, tranquilly.
"Though for Dawn's sake I'll say right here he don't
know. I told him later, that she was takin' a vacation
up at her folks' in Michigan."
"Thank God!" I breathed.
"Wore a New York Press Club button, this guy did.
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