Mary shrank herself as small as possible against a wall and waited. The valet was not long in returning. With him was a middle-aged, stout, red-faced person who swiftly inspected Mary with a piercing pair of eyes.
"This the dame?" he asked, in a casual tone.
Mary stiffened at the question.
"This is the lady I told you about," said Pete. Then addressing Mary: "This is the gentleman who is going to bail Mr. Marshall."
"Don't travel too fast," said the bondsman. "Maybe I am and maybe I'm not. Who are you, anyhow?"
He was looking at Mary with another critical glance. Her cheeks had become red by this time; to Pete she seemed to be growing taller.
"I am secretary to Mr. William Marshall," she said. "My name is Miss Norcross. And I do not wish to be addressed in the manner that you now assume."
There was a flash of dismay in Pete's eyes, to be succeeded by one of admiration. As for the bondsman, he stared for several seconds in a sort of dull surprise.
"Oh, no offense," he said. "Got anything to identify you?"
Mary opened her bag and drew forth some letters, which she handed to Pete. She would not permit this creature to receive them from her own hand. He seemed to sense the import of this employment of an intermediary, for he surveyed her once more, this time with what was obviously a more respectful curiosity. Then he began reading the letters.