He walked out of the bar.
Kiernan lighted a cigarette. He ordered another Martini. He stood there relaxed, listening to Vincente Callao singing another rumba song.
In the restaurant Antoinette Brown finished her coffee; put the cup down; looked at Aurora.
She said: "So you'd heard about Callao?"
Aurora looked towards the band platform. Her cheeks were a trifle flushed; her eyes too bright. Antoinette saw that her friend's eyes were narrowed— a habit she had when thinking of some men.
"I'd heard about him," said Aurora. "He's a poppet, isn't he? You can see exactly what he is— very good looking and Latin and sleek and dangerous. Rather an interesting type."
"Are you really curious about him, Aurora?" asked Antoinette.
The other nodded. "Awfully curious. So much so that in a minute I'
