She had turned away, giving him only a side glance,
as he came out. “I don’t know what’s
on, something big. The chief’s going to
give you your big chance—with me.”
Ronicky Doone grunted.
“Don’t do that,” exclaimed the girl
impatiently. “I know you think Pete is
the top of the world, but that doesn’t mean that
you can make a good imitation of him. Don’t
do it, Harry. You’ll pass by yourself.
You don’t need a make-up, and not Pete’s
on a bet.”
They reached the head of the stairs, and Ronicky Doone
paused. To go down was to face the mysterious
chief whom he had no doubt was the old man to whom
Harry Morgan had already referred. In the meantime
the conviction grew that this was indeed Caroline
Smith. Her free-and-easy way of talk was exactly
that of a girl who might become interested in a man
whom she had never seen, merely by letters.
“I want to talk to you,” said Ronicky,
muffling his voice. “I want to talk to
you alone.”
“To me?” asked the girl, turning toward
him. The light from the hall lamp below gave
Ronicky the faintest hint of her profile.
“Yes.”
“But the chief?”
“He can wait.”
She hesitated, apparently drawn by curiosity in one
direction, but stopped by another thought. “I
suppose he can wait, but, if he gets stirred up about
it—oh, we’ll, I’ll talk to you—but
nothing foolish, Harry. Promise me that?”
“Yes.”
“Slip into my room for a minute.”
She led the way a few steps down the hall, and he
followed her through the door, working his mind frantically
in an effort to find words with which to open his speech
before she should see that he was not Harry Morgan
and cry out to alarm the house. What should he
say? Something about Bill Gregg at once, of course.
That was the thing.
The electric light snapped on at the far side of the
room. He saw a dressing table, an Empire bed
covered with green-figured silk, a pleasant rug on
the floor, and, just as he had gathered an impression
of delightful femininity from these furnishings, the
girl turned from the lamp on the dressing table, and
he saw—not Caroline Smith, but a bronze-haired
beauty, as different from Bill Gregg’s lady as
day is from night.
A Cross-Examination
He was conscious then only of green-blue eyes, very
wide, very bright, and lips that parted on a word
and froze there in silence. The heart of Ronicky
Doone leaped with joy; he had passed the crisis in
safety. She had not cried out.
“You’re not—” he had
said in the first moment.
“I am not who?” asked the girl with amazing
steadiness. But he saw her hand go back to the
dressing table and open, with incredible deftness
and speed, the little top drawer behind her.
“Don’t do that!” said Ronicky softly,
but sharply. “Keep your hand off that table,
lady, if you don’t mind.”
