_Leg. forst.?_
He closed the lid of the box and shut the drawer and turned toward the door.
The only dishonest man in the world, he thought. Immune to the honesty factor in the yellow spores because of the resistance built up within him by his long use of the leaf.
He had set a trap tonight to victimize Pickering and tomorrow he’d go out and fox the Government and there was no telling where he’d go from there. Hazlitt had said something about taking over the entire planet and the idea was not a bad one if he could only squeeze out the necessary time.
He chuckled at the thought of how all the honest suckers would stand innocently in line, unable to do a thing about it – all fair prey to the one dishonest man in the entire world. A wolf among the sheep!
He drew himself erect and pulled the white gloves on carefully. He flicked his walking stick. Then he thumped himself on the chest – just once – and let himself out into the hall. He did not bother to lock the door behind him.
In the lobby, as he stepped out of the elevator, he saw the Widow Foshay coming in the door. She turned and called back cheerfully to friends who had brought her home.
He lifted his hat to her with an olden courtesy that he thought he had forgotten.
She threw up her hands in mock surprise. “Mr. Packer,” she cried, “what has come over you? Where do you think you’re going at this time of night, when all honest people are abed?”
“Minerva,” he told her gravely, “I was about to take a stroll. I wonder if you might come along with me?”
She hesitated for an instant, just long enough to give the desired small show of reluctance and indecision.
He whuffled out his moustache at her. “Besides,” he said, “I am not an honest person.”
He offered her his arm with distinguished gallantry.