They were certainly becoming a little boisterous. A magnum of champagne was being opened. Fluffy Dean’s cheeks were already flushed, and her eyes glittering. Every one at the table was talking a great deal and drinking toasts.
“This is the end of Fluffy Dean,” Violet Brown said, severely. “I hate to be uncharitable, but it serves her right.”
Peter Ruff paid his bill.
“Let us go,” he said.
In the taxicab, on their way back to Miss Brown’s rooms, Ruff was unusually silent, but just before he said good night to her—on the pavement, in fact, outside her front door—he asked a question.
“Violet,” he said, “would you like to play detective for an hour or two?”
She looked at him in some surprise.
“You know I always like to help in anything that’s going,” she said.
“Letty Shaw was an Australian, wasn’t she?” he asked.
“Yes.”