"Does Mrs. Flora Lopez live in this house?" Catherine had a notion that the dim house gave a flutter of curiosity, as if doors moved cautiously ajar. "I'm Mrs. Hammond," she added sharply to the closed door. "She works for me."
The door swung open a crack, and a fat dusky face appeared, one white eye gleaming.
"You wants Mis' Flora Lopez?"
"Do you know her? Which is her flat?"
"Sure I knows her." The round eye held her in hostile inspection. "Is you f'om the police station, too?"
"No. She works for me. Is she sick?" Queer, how that sense of listening enmity flowed down the crooked stairway. "Which is her flat?"
"She ain't sick, exac'ly. Ain't she come to wuk to-day?"
"Who zat, want Flora?" The voice came richly down the stairway.
"Which is her flat?" insisted Catherine.