Perhaps ten performers occupied the stage, and at one end was the
hysterical scraping on strings, the muffled hammered drums, that
furnished the rhythm for a slow intense waltz.
Yet in no detail was the place so marked as by an indefinable
oppressive atmosphere. The strong musk and edged perfumes, the races,
distinct and subtly antagonistic or mingled and spoiled, the rasping
instruments, combined in an unnatural irritating pressure; they
produced an actual sensation of cold and staleness like that from the
air of a vault.
Doret ordered beer in a bottle, and watched the negro waitress snap off
the cap. He had never seen a cafe such as this before, and he was
engaged, slightly; its character he expressed comprehensively in the
word "bad."
A wonderfully agile dancer caught the attention of the room. The
musicians added their voices to the jangle, and the minor half-
inarticulate wail, the dull regular thudding of the bass drum were
savage. The song fluctuated and died; the dancer dropped exhausted into
her chair.
Then Lemuel saw June Bowman. He was only a short distance away, and--
without Bella--seated alone but talking to the occupants of the next
table. Lemuel Doret was composed. In his pocket he removed the
automatic pistol from its rubber case. Still there was no hurry--Bowman
was half turned from him, absolutely at his command. The other twisted
about, his glance swept the room, and he recognized Doret. He half rose
from his chair, made a gesture of acknowledgment that died before
Lemuel's stony face, and sank back into his place.
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