"Don't ask me what it means, because I might tell you, and you wouldn't be any happier for knowing that!" the girl said quietly.
"But the Frenchwoman?" Anthony essayed, lunging off in another direction. "Who was she?"
"Well, she was my personal maid—at least it won't hurt you to know that much," Mary dimpled. "I sent for her and asked her to bring my bag and—there's the bag."
One pink foot indicated it, and for many seconds Anthony's dumfounded eyes stared at the thing. There was an intricate monogram on one end, which he could not decipher; otherwise, it impressed him. The bag was a very, very expensive bit of luggage and his failing heart thumped a trifle harder.
No stray young woman owns a bag like that and a French maid to carry it around; no adventurous female waif of the type one might expect to find wandering about in masculine raiment speaks in the unquestionably cultivated tone that Mary was using now. And no clear-eyed, clear-skinned young female friend of Mary's type ever belonged to the demi-monde!
Mary was a person of parts and position. How she had appeared at the fight, Anthony, if he had wonderful luck, might never learn; but the fact remained that he had detained her against her will in his apartment, and possibilities loomed so swiftly and numerous before his mental vision that his throat tightened.
"You—you're a respectable young woman!" he said hoarsely.
"Thank you, unquestionably," Mary smiled dryly.
"And—er—as such, the thing to do is to get you out of here as quickly and as inconspicuously as possible."
"I've been trying to get out inconspicuously myself," Mary suggested.