"For an adventuress," I remarked, "you seem to notice things."
"No one in the world, except those who live by adventures, ever has any inducement to notice things," she retorted. "That is why amateurs are such failures. One never does anything so well as when one does it for one's living."
"The question is arguable," I submitted.
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Every question is arguable if it is worth while," she agreed carelessly.
"Look at all those people coming in!"
"I don't understand it," I confessed. "These places are against the law, yet there seems to be no concealment at all! Why aren't we raided?"
"Raids in this part of London only take place by arrangement," she assured me. "This place will reach its due date sometime, but every one will know all about it beforehand. They are making a clear profit here of about four hundred pounds a night and it has been running for two months now. When the raid comes Mr. Rubenstein—I think that is his name—can pay his five- hundred-pound fine and move on somewhere else. It's wicked—the money they make here some nights!"
"You seem to know a good deal about it," I remarked.
"The place interests father," she told me. "He comes here often."
"And you?"