For some moments the girl stared at him shrewdly. After all, perhaps—— “I guess I made a mistake,” she said at last, slowly. “It’s hard to guess sometimes. I’ll take dinner with you and hear what you’ve got to say. But you take my tip and don’t try any funny business, or I’ll call a cop. See?”
The Professor nodded.
“All right, then,” declared the girl. “There’s a spaghetti emporium right back of here on Sixth Avenue. We’ll go there.”
A few moments later the trio were sitting in a huge plate-glass restaurant, and Miss Lee, at the Professor’s request, was ordering a somewhat elaborate dinner. Then, while she awaited its coming, she leaned forward across the table. “Well!” she began, ignoring Bristow, who plainly desired to remain in the background. “Well, now’s the time to spring the story of your life in thirteen chapters and tell what led up to this thrilling moment—unless you’d rather wait till after the tooth-picks. You ain’t going to spring an Arabian Nights fable on me, are you?”
“Perhaps I may.”
“Really! Well, all right. I’m willing. Go ahead.”
The waiter brought the soup, and the girl began to eat with elaborate interest. The Professor noted that her table manners were good and would arouse no suspicion. Her slangy way of speaking gave him some misgivings, but he put them aside.
“My name,” he began, “is Shishkin.”
“What!” The girl laid down her spoon and regarded him severely. “Well, you’re original, any way,” she laughed. “Sure it ain’t Jones?”
“No—Shishkin. I am a Russian, but I have been living in this country for twenty years. Will you tell me something about yourself?”