"Your paper?" he inquired courteously.
Mr. Grimm was still gazing dreamily out of the window.
"I beg pardon," insisted the new-comer pleasantly. He folded the paper
once and replaced it on the table. One hand lingered for just the
fraction of a moment above Mr. Grimm's coffee-cup.
Aroused by the remark, Mr. Grimm glanced around.
"Oh, thank you," he apologized hastily. "I didn't hear you at first.
Thank you."
The new-comer nodded, smiled and passed on, taking a seat two or three
tables down.
Apparently this trifling courtesy had broken the spell of reverie, for
Mr. Grimm squared around to the table again, drew his coffee-cup toward
him, and dropped in the single lump of sugar. He idly stirred it for a
moment, as his eyes turned again toward the open window, then he lifted
the tiny cup and emptied it.
Again he sat motionless for a long time, and thrice the new-comer, only
a few feet away, glanced at him narrowly. And now, it seemed, a peculiar
drowsiness was overtaking Mr. Grimm. Once he caught himself nodding and
raised his head with a jerk. Then he noticed that the arc lights in the
street were wobbling curiously, and he fell to wondering why that
single flame sparkled at the apex of the capitol dome.
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