That had been two weeks ago--or three. And the net result had
been nothing!
Jimmie Dale allowed the evening newspaper to slip from his fingers. It
dropped to the arm of his lounging chair, and from there to the floor.
It was no use. He had been reading mechanically ever since he had
returned from the club half an hour ago, and he was conscious in only
the haziest sort of way of what he had been reading. The market, the
general news items, the editorials, had all blended one into the other
to form a meaningless jumble of words; even the leading article on the
front page, that proclaimed as imminent the final and complete expose
of what had come to be known as "The Private Club Ring"--an
investigation that, from its inception, he had hitherto followed
closely, promising as it did to involve and link in partnership with
the lowest of the underworld names that heretofore had stood high up in
the social circles of New York--seemed uninteresting and unable to hold
his attention to-night.
He rose impulsively from his chair, and, walking down the length of the
richly furnished room, his tread soundless on the thick, heavy rug, drew
the portieres aside, and stood looking out of the rear window; It was
dark outside, but presently the shadows formed into concrete shapes,
and, across the black space of driveway and yard, the wall of the garage
assumed a solid background against the night.
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