The colored girl had disappeared down a long passage and presently a door opened back there and a woman came out, tall and thin, in a skimpy black dress. She approached us as we stood in a group by the hatrack, leaning forward near-sightedly and blinking at us through silver-rimmed spectacles.
"My maid says you want to see Mr. Sammis," she said, in an unamiable voice.
"Yes," I answered. "We've come from New York and it's imperative we see him this evening."
"But you can't," she snapped. "He's sick. The doctor says he mustn't be disturbed."
Talking it over afterward we all confessed that we were seized by the same idea—that this lanky old spinster might be in the game and Barker's illness was a fake. Feeling as I did I was ready to leap forward, grab her, and lock her in her own parlor while the others chased up the stairs. I could sense the slight, uneasy stir of the two men beside me, and I tried to inject a determination into my voice, that while it was civil was also informing:
"I'm sorry, but it's absolutely necessary that we transact our business with him now."
"Can't you give me a message?" she demurred, squinting her eyes up behind the glasses. "I'll see that it's delivered in the morning."
"No, Madam. This is important and can't wait. We won't be long, we only have to consult with him for a few minutes."
She gave a shrug as much as to say, "Well, this is your affair!" and, drawing back, pointed to the stairs.
"He's up there, fourth floor front, second door to your left."