She turned with a start, and looked at him with something between terror and hope in her eyes.
“Can I—have a few words—with you, alone?” said Mr. Hoopdriver, controlling his breath with difficulty. She hesitated, and then motioned the waiter to withdraw.
Mr. Hoopdriver watched the door shut. He had intended to step out into the middle of the room, fold his arms and say, “You are in trouble. I am a Friend. Trust me.” Instead of which he stood panting and then spoke with sudden familiarity, hastily, guiltily: “Look here. I don’t know what the juice is up, but I think there’s something wrong. Excuse my intruding—if it isn’t so. I’ll do anything you like to help you out of the scrape—if you’re in one. That’s my meaning, I believe. What can I do? I would do anything to help you.”
Her brow pu
