"Don't know whatcher mean. Translate that, won't you?"
"He means never getting out," said Graham.
"Never getting out! I don't get you, Steve. Me and my sister get away after the show, same as any other."
"What!" Graham was incredulous. It struck him that the girl was lying for reasons of loyalty to her employer. He knew better.
"Oh, I see!" said Kenyon, leading her on carefully. "You don't live here, then?"
"Live here? Of course I don't. I come about ten o'clock every night and leave anywhere between three and four in the morning. Earlier if there's nothing doing."
"Oh, I thought that the girls here are,—well, held up, kept here all the time,—prisoners, so to speak."
A shrill amused laugh rang out. "Oh, cut it out! What's all this dope? Say! you've been reading White Slave books. You're bug-house—dippy. Why, this is a respectable place, this is. This is the house of Art. We're models, that's what we are. We're only here for local colour. If we choose to make a bit extra on our own, we can." She laughed again. It was a good joke. The best that she had heard for years.
Kenyon threw a quick glance at Graham's face. He could just see it in the dim light. The boy was listening intently—incredulously. So also was Peter, who had drawn himself into a corner and was hunched up uncomfortably.
Kenyon began to feel excited. Everything was going almost unbelievably well. The girl was so frank, so open and obviously spontaneous. It was excellent. "Of course you tell us these things," he said, voicing what he knew was going silently through Graham's mind. "But we know better. We know that you, like that poor little girl, Ita Strabosck, are watched and not allowed to get away under any circumstances. Now, why not tell us the truth? We may be able to help you escape, too."