CHAPTER II
A Tricky Game
The Prall apartment was on the eighth floor, but Richard Bates passed by the elevator and went down the stairs. Only one flight, however, and on the seventh floor, he walked along the hall, whistling in a subdued key. The air was an old song, a one-time favorite, “Won’t you come out and play wiz me?” and the faint notes grew stronger as he passed a certain door. Then he went on, but soon turned, retraced his steps, and went up again the one flight of stairs. Pausing at the elevator, he pushed the down button and was soon in the car and smiling on the demure young woman in uniform who ran it.
“This car of yours, Daisy,” he remarked, “is like the church of Saint Peter at Rome, it has an atmosphere of its own. But if the church had this atmosphere there’d be mighty few worshipers! How can you stand it? Doesn’t it make you ill?”
“Ill?” and the girl rolled weary eyes at him; “I’m dead! You can bring the flowers when you’re ready, Gridley!”
“Poor child,” and Bates looked compassionately at the white face, that even a vanity case failed to keep in blooming condition, so moisty warm was the stuffy elevator. “It’s wicked to shut you up in such a cage——”
“Oh, I’m all right,” she responded, hurriedly, as her bell sounded a sharp, impatient ring. “I’m not complaining. But people are so trying on a day like this. That’s Mr. Binney’s ring.”
“How do you know. Do you know everybody’s touch?”
“Not everybody’s,—but lots of them. Mr. Binney, he hates elevator girls——”
“Oh, come now,—my uncle is a great admirer of all women——”