He wandered to the windows of the Justice, Inc., office. Spring had reached Manhattan, and the street below was bright with warm morning sunshine. The short block was called Bleek Street. It was all owned, though very few people knew this, by the Avenger. Putting his hands in his trouser pockets, the black man made a random circuit of the large office. “Doctor said it won’t be till next week,” he said to himself. “But I got a feeling . . .” The door opened, and a lanky sandy-haired man came in. “Ye dinna look yer usual relaxed self, Josh,” observed Fergus MacMurdie. “I got a feeling that—” The phone on the desk rang. Mac was closest, so he answered. “Aye? Ah, fine, and yourself, lass?” Beckoning to Josh, he handed him the phone. “ ’Tis for you.” “Hello. Oh, yeah, hello, Rosabel. You sure? You’re sure, okay. You wait right there, you hear?
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