Alberson's professional smile departed.
“I would n't say any one had taken any of my money,” he answered. “What do you think you know about it?”
“He told me.”
Alberson glanced at Freeman Todder as if he meant to call him, but changed his mind.
“Come in the back room,” he said, and led the way.
There were two ways into Alberson's back room, one at either end of the prescription case. One was the doorway by which Johnnie bustled back and forth when he came out to wait on a customer or hurried back to compound a prescription. The other was less frank. It was at the other end of the prescription case. Here was placed the long showcase containing toilet articles—the face powders, combs, brushes, perfumes—but standing on the floor, close to the case, was a large easel bearing a six-foot advertisement in gay colors. To see the articles beyond this it was necessary to go behind it. The most innocent of customers might do that, wishing to see the articles in the case, or a silly or foolhardy girl might seem to be looking in the case and disappear behind the easel, and thence slip through the opening into the region behind Johnnie's prescription case and into the famous back room. That was one reason you might think you saw some young woman enter Alberson's drug store and yet not find her there if you entered. It was said that Johnnie's back room was about the only place in Riverbank where a girl could smoke a cigarette in safety, or—rumor said—find a glass of sherry wine. Alberson led Henrietta to the back room by the open path.
“You said Freeman told you something,” he said when they were there. “What do you think he told you?”
They were standing. Henrietta placed her purse on the stained table.
“May I sit down?” she asked. “I wish you would sit down too. I want to tell you something I have never breathed before.”
Alberson took a seat opposite her and she looked him steadily in the face.