“Wait a minute, Lucy.” Shayne’s face was gaunt as he turned his head to look at the clock. “My plane leaves for New Orleans in about two minutes. You know I’ll never go back to that office if you run out on me. It’s too late to refund my ticket. We’ll talk things over in the morning and I-Damn it, Lucy, I’m bringing you a present.” His left hand touched the jewel box in his pocket.

“I don’t want any present from you, Michael Shayne. I’m leaving town myself for a long vacation.” There was a solid and definite click at the other end of the wire.

Shayne held the instrument to his ear as though he feared to remove it, as though he feared the mere physical act of cutting the connection at his end would make the break more decisive than Lucy had already made it. There were deep trenches in his gaunt cheeks and his shaggy red brows were drawn low over his gray eyes as he gently cradled the receiver and pushed the instrument toward the young man behind the counter.

Then, as he turned away, an eager hand was laid on his arm, and he was conscious of a rush of low-spoken words in his ear.

“I couldn’t help overhearing part of your conversation, brother. I gathered you’ve a ticket on Flight Sixty-two to New Orleans and you won’t be needing it now.”

Shayne turned his red head slowly and looked down into the face of the man who had hold of his arm. It was a good-natured, doughy sort of face, as though the dough had been taken from the oven before it had begun to brown. The man was bareheaded, neatly dressed in a gray business suit and white shirt with a black bow tie. The hand on Shayne’s arm trembled with eagerness and the soft brown eyes beneath bleached brows looked at him as supplicatingly as those of a hound puppy about to be fed a scrap of meat.

But there was something more than fawning supplication in the damp eyes. There was terror and a desperate and despairing urgency.