"Yes, ma'am. I understand," replied the girl, as she went out into the hall.
A moment later Mrs. Morton, hearing a man's voice, hurried after her. Nora, with the door but slightly open, was speaking with a rough-looking fellow, a workman, apparently, who stood in the hallway outside. He was a man of thirty-five, with a reddish moustache, wearing working clothes and a cap. This he removed, as Mrs. Morton came to the door.
"Is this Mrs. Morton's apartment?" he asked.
"Yes. What do you want?" Mrs. Morton's voice and manner were far from encouraging.
"There seems to be a leak in the plumbing somewhere on this floor," the man went on. "There's trouble with the ceilings in the apartment below. The superintendent wants me to go over the connections and see that everything is all right." He lifted a canvas bag containing his tools from the floor, and made as though to enter. Mrs. Morton, however, did not open the door any wider.
"You can't come in now," she said. "Come back later—in an hour. My daughter is not dressed yet." She seemed ready to close the door entirely, but the man again spoke.
"Can't afford to wait, ma'am," he said, with a significant smile. "I got every apartment in this building to go over before the end of the month, and there are only twenty-seven days left." He emphasized his concluding words, at the same time looking Mrs. Morton squarely in the eye. The words, the man's look, brought sudden recognition. Mrs. Morton drew open the door.
"Very well," she said. "Come in." She realized that the supposed workman was no other than Duvall.
The latter went quietly toward the kitchen at the rear of the apartment, and occupied himself by examining the connections of the sink. He seemed to work slowly, unconcernedly, whistling softly to himself as he moved about. His eyes, however, were very bright and keen, and no detail of the room, the negro cook who occupied it, or the buildings in the rear, escaped his attention.
Mrs. Morton came back presently and addressed him.