Читать книгу The Ball of Fire онлайн

67 страница из 101

Immediately on his return to his library, Allison threw off his coat and waistcoat, collar and tie, and sat at the table.

“What is there in the ice box?” he wanted to know.

“Well, sir,” enumerated Ephraim carefully; “Mirandy had a chicken pot-pie for dinner, and then there’s—”

“That will do; cold,” interrupted Allison. “Bring it here with as few service things as possible, a bottle of Vichy and some olives.”

He began to set down some figures, and when Ephraim came, shaking his head to himself about such things as cold dumplings at night, Allison stopped for ten minutes, and lunched with apparent relish. At seven-thirty he called Ephraim and ordered a cold plunge and some breakfast. He had been up all night, and on the map of the United States there were pencilled two thin straight black lines; one from New York to Chicago, and one from Chicago to San Francisco. Crossing them, and paralleling them, and angling in their general direction, but quite close to them in the main, were lines of blue and lines of green and lines of orange; these three.