Married. And he had
hoped, he thought rather pitiably, that even though Nancy had so firmly
decided to blight him forever she might have a few pleasant memories of
their engagement at least. Instead--well, he could see the headlines
now. "Big Financier, Youth and Mystery Woman Die in Triple Slaying."
"_Dead_--Oliver Crowe, Yale 1917, of Melgrove, L. I."
It hadn't been his job, damn it, it hadn't been his job at all. It was now,
though, with Ted perfectly helpless on the fire-escape where any crazy
person could take pot-shots at him as if he were a plaster pipe in a
shooting gallery. The idea of escape had somehow never seriously occurred
to him--what had happened in the evening already had impressed him so
with a sense of inane fatality that he could not even conceive of the
possibility of any-thing's coming right. In any event, Ted, tied up the
way he was, was too heavy and clumsy to carry down even the most ordinary
flight of stairs--and if he were going to be shot, he somehow preferred
to gasp his last breaths out on a comfortably carpeted floor rather than
clinging like a disreputable spider to the iron web of a fire-escape.
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