On the floor, underneath the sixth row desks, was an ashtray with a small black dot of blood on its blunt round corner. He was about to cut the sergeant short, when his eye fell on a gentleman walking along Piccadilly, his manner uncertain, his eyes shifting as if he sought something out. It would be an ice storm by midnight if it did not let up. But for the next few days he avoided Cheveney like the plague. Jack had well-nigh fallen too. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind. He would advise you how to get rid of the fellow.
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