“I’m here to keep an appointment.”
“With whom?”
“With the woman who made it. Are you she?”
“I most certainly am not. Stand to one side and let me out.”
“You don’t live here?”
She hesitated a moment, then said, “No.”
Mason stood to one side. “Go ahead,” he said.
She came toward him cautiously. Light coming through the doorway struck her face. He could see deep brown eyes, a rather short, pert nose, light golden hair which fluffed out from under the rolled-up brim of a small hat perched jauntily on one side of her head. She was rather tall, and her short skirt disclosed legs which had a long graceful sweep from knee to ankle.
“Just keep back out of the way,” she warned, holding the gun on him as she came forward.
“Why the artillery?” Mason asked, trying to trap her into conversation.