CHAPTER TWELVEInformal
The music went on; professional playing, with cunning hesitancies and recoveries, tuneless but rhythmical. Mrs. Tanner opened large blue eyes. They were bloodshot, the skin of her whole face was suffused and puffy, and yet the haggard look was there. She had not escaped through alcohol from the feelings that sent her to it.
She held out her hand. “Good old Artie. Mr. Gamadge. Wayne, get us something to drink.”
The dark, bald man—he was only bald in front, Gamadge saw as he turned—was moving slowly towards a buffet that seemed to bristle with bottles, glasses, siphons; Mrs. Lynch said rather hurriedly: “Introductions first, darling, you know. Arthur, Mr. Gamadge, you must meet these nice people.”
The dark man had an expressionless face, good-looking in a narrow-fe
