possible. His first impulse was to follow that wise-eyed young Jap through the door and have it out, face to face with the Saginaw lumberman who smoked Russian cigarettes. For Kestner's plans had miscarried. Appearances, he had to confess, were dolefully against him. Yet, nothing, his next thought was, could be gained by waiting.
He stood up, looked about, and then sat down again. For the portière at the far end of the room had suddenly lifted. Through the doorway where this portière hung stepped a young woman. And that young woman was Sadie Wimpel.
She carried a tray on which stood a small chafing-dish and an electric coffee percolator. Several seconds elapsed before she actually saw Kestner. Then she came to a standstill, stooping forward a little with the weight of the tray. Her eyes slowly widened and then narrowed again, like camera lenses controlled by an invisible bulb.
"For the love o' Mike!" she said, very quietly and very slowly.
Kestner himself did not move. He sat watching the young woman as she placed the tray on the end of a table, still staring back at him all the while. Then she lifted a puzzled hand and milked the pink lobe of her ear between a meditative thumb and forefinger.
"For the love o' Mike!" she slowly and somewhat lugubriously repeated.
Kestner decided to take the bull by the horns. The situation was too full of menace for delay.
"Sadie," he said, as he took a step or two nearer her, "this is one of the big moments of your life!"
