He smoked another cigarette, and
after that another. The clock under the hood showed five minutes past
eleven; the minute hand crept around to eight, nine, ten minutes past
the hour--and then a taxi swerved on little better than two wheels
around the corner--and Jimmie Dale, springing from his seat, jumped to
the pavement as the taxi drew up at the curb.
Jason, palpably agitated, and followed by Benson, descended from the
taxi. Jimmie Dale dismissed the cab, and motioned Benson to the car.
"Well, Jason?" he said quickly.
"It's here, sir, Master Jim"--the old butler fumbled in an inner pocket,
and produced an envelope--"I--"
"Thank you! That's all--Jason." Jimmie Dale's quick smile robbed his
curt dismissal of any sting. "Benson, of course, will drive you home."
"Yes, sir." The old man went slowly to the car, and climbed in beside
the chauffeur. "Good-night, sir!" Jason ventured wistfully. "Good-night,
Master Jim!"
"Good-night, Jason--good-night, Benson!" Jimmie Dale answered--and,
turning, started briskly along the street. Jason's "good-night" had been
eloquent of the old man's anxiety. He would have liked to reassure Jason
--but he had neither the time, nor, for that matter, the ability to do
so.
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