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