The millionaire seemed to become a smaller man as he glanced over
his shoulder. The lady who had been recently divorced bent over her plate.
A group of noisy young fellows talking together about a Stock Exchange
deal, suddenly ceased their clamour of voices as he passed. A man sitting
alone, with a drawn face, deliberately concealed himself behind a
newspaper, and an aldermanic-looking gentleman who was entertaining a
fluffy-haired young lady from a well-known typewriting office, looked for
a moment like an errant school-boy. Not one of these people did Sanford
Quest seem to see. He passed out to the elevator, tipped the man who
sycophantly took him the whole of the way down without a stop, walked
through the crowded hall of the hotel and entered a closed motor-car
without having exchanged greetings with a soul. Yet there was scarcely a
person there who could feel absolutely sure that he had not been noticed.
* * * * *
Sanford Quest descended, about ten minutes later, before a large and
gloomy-looking house in Georgia Square. The neighbourhood was, in its way,
unique. The roar and hubbub of the city broke like a restless sea only a
block or so away. On every side, this square of dark, silent houses seemed
to be assailed by the clamour of the encroaching city. For some reason or
other, however, it remained a little oasis of old-fashioned buildings,
residences, most of them, of a generation passed away. Sanford Quest
entered the house with a latch-key.
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