The effect on the hag's features was marvelous. The black scowl lightened, the tight-drawn lips relaxed, and there was a sign of pleasure in the bright eyes that had flashed hatred at the policeman.
“Ah, it's you, is it?” she said sharply, but with a tone of kindness in her greeting. “I didn't see ye. Now sit down and find a table, and I'll be with ye after a bit.”
“We want a dinner, and a good one. I'm half-starved.”
“Are ye, honey?” said the woman with delight.
“Then it's the best dinner in town ye shall have. Here, Jim! Put these gentlemen over there at the corner table.”
And if the cooking was not what we could have had at the Maison Dorée and the service was a little off color, neither of us was disposed to be critical.
“It's not the aristocracy of stoile ye get here,” said Corson, lighting his pipe after the coffee, “but it's prime eating.”
I nodded in lazy contentment, and then started up in remembrance of the occasion of our being in this place as the shadow of Mother Borton fell across the table. Her keen eyes fixed on me and her sharp beak nodding toward me gave her the uncanny aspect of a bird of prey, and I felt a sinking of courage as I met her glance.
“If you will go upstairs,” she said sourly. “You know the way. I guess your friend can spare you.”
“Is there anything that can't be told before him?” I asked.