It was a swift byplay, but need sharpens one's wits. Not that Clancy's ever were dull, for, indeed, a lesser character, even in such danger as hers, might have been too concerned with her physical well-being, her appearance, to notice anything else. But she caught the byplay, and it brought a silent sigh of relief up from her chest. She was on her own ground now, the ground of sex. Had Vandervent been a woman, such a woman as Sophie Carey or Sally Henderson, Clancy would have surrendered immediately, would have known that she had not a chance in the world of persuading any woman that she had played a joke when she announced herself as Florine Ladue. But with a man—with Philip Vandervent, whose hand shook as he held a glass of water for her, whose eyes expressed a flattering anxiety—Clancy's smile would have been scornful had not scorn been a bit out of place at the moment. Instead, it was shyly confident.
"A—er—a joke, of course, Miss Deane," said Vandervent.
"Not so very funny, though, after all," said Clancy, with just enough timidity in her manner to flatter Vandervent.
The blue-coated man snorted.
"'Joke!' 'Funny!' Excuse me, lady; but where do you get your humor?"
Vandervent wheeled and glared at the man.
"That'll be about all, Spofford!" he snapped.
Spofford shrugged.
"You're the boss," he said. "Only—how does she happen to know the name Florine Ladue? Answer me that, will you?"
"I told her," said Vandervent shortly.