"
The girl stamped her satin-shod foot impatiently.
"Don't be silly," she expostulated. "You know I promised Clara
we'd be there early."
"All very well," the young man grumbled, "but what can we do? We
shall have to wait our turn."
"Why can't you slip out and look for a taxi yourself?" she
suggested. "Do, Victor," she added, squeezing his arm. "You're
so clever at picking them up."
He made a little grimace, but lit a cigarette and turned up his
coat collar.
"I'll do my best," he promised. "Don't go on without me."
"Try up towards Charing Cross Road, not the other way," she
advised earnestly.
"Right-oh!" he replied, which illuminative form of assent, a word
spoken as he plunged unwillingly into the thick obscurity on the
other side of the revolving doors, was probably the last he ever
uttered on earth.
Left alone, the girl began to shiver, as though suddenly cold.
She turned around and glanced hurriedly back into the restaurant.
At that moment she met the steady, questioning scrutiny of
Francis' eyes. She stood as though transfixed. Then came the
sound which every one talked of for months afterwards, the sound
which no one who heard it ever forgot--the death cry of Victor
Bidlake, followed a second afterwards by a muffled report. A
strain of frenzied surprise seemed mingled with the horror.
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