“Rita Swaine.”
“How old are you, Miss Swaine?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Where do you live?”
“1388 Chestnut Street,” she said, glancing across at Della Street, whose pen was busy making copperplate shorthand notes.
“That’s all right,” Mason assured her, “you needn’t worry about Miss Street. She’s my secretary. Do you live in an apartment house?”
“Yes. Apartment 408.”
“Telephone?”
“Not in my name. There’s a switchboard service.”
“What do you want to see me about?”