The two were talking earnestly now in lower tones.

Jimmie Dale only caught a word here and there--his faculties for the moment were concentrated on traversing the bathroom silently.

He reached the farther door, crouched there, peered through the crack--and the old whimsical smile flickered across his lips again.
The Palais-Metropole was high class and exclusive, and the Weasel for once looked quite the gentleman, and, for all his sharp, ferret face, not entirely out of keeping with his surroundings--else he would never have got farther than the lobby.

The other was a short, thickset, heavy-jowled man, with a great shock of sandy hair, and small black eyes that looked furtively out from overhanging, bushy eyebrows.
"Well," Hamvert was saying, "the details are your concern.

What I want is results.