The subterranean level of the Diedermayer house was fully bedecked with every luxury known to mankind. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. It appeared he had already ordered dinner and wine, and the whiskered waiter waved in his subordinate with the soup forthwith. There was a couple who disappeared. ‘Champion?’ ‘The lad you saw following her.
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