The light burned long in the little room, far past the usual closing time and until after the picture-show crowds had come and gone, while the man of the blue-white scar remained at his desk, staring at papers, making row after row of figures, and while outside, facing the chill and the cold of winter, Fairchild trod the opposite side of the street, careful that no one caught the import of his steady, sentry-like pace, yet equally careful that he did not get beyond a range of vision where he could watch the gleam of light from the office of the Silver Queen.

Anita's note had told him little, yet had implied much.

Something was fermenting in the seething brain of Squint Rodaine, and if the past counted for anything, it was something that concerned him.
An hour more, then Fairchild suddenly slunk into the shadows of a doorway.

Squint had snapped out the light and was locking the door.

A moment later he had passed him, his form bent, his shoulders hunched forward, his lips muttering some unintelligible jargon.