In whispers
Jeff told them the story, answering a hundred eager trembling
questions.
Slowly the clock ticked out the seconds of the endless night. Gray
day began to sift into the room. Mrs. Anderson's excursions to the
bedroom door grew more frequent. Sometimes she opened it an inch
or two. On one of these occasions she went in quickly and shut the
door behind her.
"Good enough. They don't need us here, Sam. We'll go out and have
some breakfast," Jeff proposed.
On the street they met Billie Gray. He greeted the editor with a
knowing grin. "Good morning, Mr. Farnum. How's everything? Fine
and dandy, eh?"
Jeff looked at him sharply. "What the mischief is he doing here?"
he asked Miller by way of comment.
All through breakfast that sinister little figure shadowed his
thoughts. Gray was like a stormy petrel. He was surely there for
no good, barring the chance of its being an accident. Both of them
kept their eyes open on their way back, but they met nobody except
a policeman swinging his club as he leaned against a lamp post and
whistled the Merry Widow waltz.
But Farnum was not satisfied. He cautioned both Sam and Mrs.
Anderson to say nothing, above all to give no names or explanation
to anybody.
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