"Mr. Winfield's, ma'am."

"Is he in?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'll fetch him. And if the policeman comes along and wants to know why
you're lying there, mind you tell him the truth, that you ran into me."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Very well. Don't forget."

"No, ma'am."

She crossed the street and rang the bell over which was a card hearing
the name of "Kirk Winfield". Mr. Pennicut watched her in silence.

Mrs. Porter pressed the button a second time. Somebody came at a
leisurely pace down the passage, whistling cheerfully. The door opened.

It did not often happen to Lora Delane Porter to feel insignificant,
least of all in the presence of the opposite sex. She had well-defined
views upon man. Yet, in the interval which elapsed between the opening
of the door and her first words, a certain sensation of smallness
overcame her.

The man who had opened the door was not, judged by any standard of
regularity of features, handsome. He had a rather boyish face, pleasant
eyes set wide apart, and a friendly mouth. He was rather an outsize in