This woman framed in the doorway was Madeline—her Madeline? This woman whose dumpy figure was swathed in a bedraggled negligee that had once been clean! This woman whose scalp was haloed by a crescent of kid-curlers that held in hard lumps her brass-hued front hair! This woman with the hard, light eyes and sagging mouth-lines and beaklike nose—this woman whose face was sallow and coarse, because it had not yet received its daily dress of make-up! This—this was Madeline!
“What can I do for you?� the woman was saying for the second time, her early air of curiosity merging into one of dawning hostility.
“I am the switchboard operator downstairs,� said Daisy faintly.
A look of terror that had all along lurked in the hard eyes now sprang to new light.
“What do you want of me?�
“I want to tell you your husband heard the last part of your phone-talk just now,â€� returned Daisy conscientiously, though her heart was no longer in her mission of rescue. “He called me up about it. I—â€�
“You told him?� blithered the woman in panic.
“I told him your apartment hadn’t had a call all morning.�
“You did?â€� cried the woman, her sweet voice sharpening to a peacock screech of relief. “Good for you! Good for you! And you were perfectly right to come directly up here for your pay. What do you think would be fair reward? Don’t be afraid to say. You’ve done me a great service, and—â€�
“I don’t understand you,â€� stammered Daisy. “I don’t understand you at all. If you think I did this for money—â€�