So Sean had set up the dinner at Delmonico’s. By the end of it, his admiration for old Gabriel Love knew no bounds. The neatness, the symmetry of the thing was a work of art. And what did Frank Master have to do? Nothing—except go away for a few days.

They were to meet once more, at Delmonico’s, next Friday, to ensure that everything was in place.

Sean was contemplating this business on Saturday afternoon, when his sister Mary arrived to see him.

They spent a pleasant hour, chatting about this and that, and after a while, their conversation turned to the Master family.

“You know you told me that Frank Master was making a fool of himself, and that he’d better be careful?” Mary remarked. “Well, am I right in thinking he’s got a young lady?”

“What makes you think that?”

“I don’t know. He looks pleased with himself, but also a bit tired. I just wondered.”

“Well,” Sean smiled, “you’re right. Her name’s Donna Clipp. Clipper—that’s his pet name for her. And he ought to give it up.” He glanced at her. “Why, do you think his wife guesses?”

“She’s never given any sign she’s known about Lily de Chantal, all these years,” answered Mary. “If she’s never known about her, then why would she know about this one?”

“Glad to hear it,” said Sean. “She’s a good woman, in her way, and I’d be sorry if she was hurt.” He paused a moment. “Did you know Master’s going upriver on business next Sunday? He’ll be gone a few days, and he’s taking the girl with him.” He shrugged. “I just hope it’s over soon.”

“No fool like an old fool,” said Mary.

“Keep that to yourself, though.”

“Did you ever know me to talk?”

“No,” said Sean, approvingly, “I can’t say I did.”

An hour later, Mary informed Hetty Master: “He’s taking her with him upriver on Sunday. And he calls her Clipper.”

“Good,” said Hetty. “That’ll do nicely.”

Frank Master had hesitated, but finally, on the following Wednesday, he made up his mind. Leaving his house late in the morning, he went eastward along Fourteenth until he came to the station, climbed up the open staircase of the El, and came out onto the platform.

As he climbed the stairs, he felt a faint twinge of discomfort, but it seemed to pass, so he took a deep breath, puffed out his chest, congratulated himself that he was still pretty damn fit, and lit a cigar.

It being quite late in the morning, there weren’t many people about on the platform. He walked along it and gazed down at the clusters of telegraph lines strung between their poles, and the slate roofs of the small houses across the street. The rooftops were grimy with the soot from the El trains that passed above them, and they usually looked sad and depressed at this time of the spring. But the weather this March was so warm that they seemed dirty but cheerful in the morning sun.