They sat in the windowed booth at the restaurant across from each other. In a few seconds, the shutter flew open,—then the window,—and they were in the room. It was excellently done, especially as she loved good dinners. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. Her momentary instinct was to run to him and be comforted, like the old times. He knew she would be there, practicing alone in 118. But I shall lose my wager if I stay a moment longer—so here goes. Sir John looked about him, and somehow the laugh died away.
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