Page:The Whisper on the Stair by Lyon Mearson (1924).djvu/86

 “Yes, so I have,” said Val. “Twice before⸺”

“Once,” corrected the man with no hands.

“No, twice—once in my bedroom⸺”

“Surely you’re mistaken,” interrupted the man who had no hands, suavely, but Val noticed a slight contraction of his eyes. “I have never had the pleasure of visiting you.”

Val shrugged his shoulders. “It’s of no consequence,” he put in. “You have something to say to me?” He looked at him inquiringly.

“If you don’t mind,” said the other. “It won’t take you a minute.”

“Well, I’m on my way uptown,” offered Val. “If you’ll ride up with me⸺”

“That’ll be fine,” smiled the older man.

They stepped into the car. “Home, Eddie,” called out Val, and the car slid out into midstreet and hummed on its way.

They sat shoulder to shoulder, strangely and constrainedly silent for a few moments. As for Val, he had nothing to say to this man until he had spoken to Miss Pomeroy and knew what relationship there was between them. He did not know how this deformed man came into this plot, anyway. The other, on his part, seemed a bit reluctant to begin the conversation. There was something on his mind—that was evident enough; it did not appear easy to say it, however.

The limousine swung up Lafayette Street and joined a home-going stream of automobiles that must have included nearly every car in New York. From all points east, west and south, and from half a dozen diagonal intersecting streets they added themselves to the live stream, noisy, a grating of innumerable