Chester Fay removed his cap, crushed it between his fingers and stepped briskly forward. He paused before the edge of a rug. Across this rug sat a girl. She swiveled in a businesslike chair and threw one neat ankle over the other. She glanced impatiently upward.
“We’d like to see you alone,” Fay said as he noted a mop of reddish hair and a freckled nose which seemed to be pressed up by an unseen finger. “Alone,” he added, swinging upon the stenographer and jerking his chin toward the door.
“Why, certainly!”
The girl slipped out and closed the door. Fay left Rake’s side and moved up close to a littered desk which bore some resemblance to order.
“To be brief as time!” he said, drawing a card from his pocket. “To be brief,” he whispered, replacing the card, “I want to know just why you took a taxi at or about six o’clock last night, went down to the Southampton Dock and waited for a passenger who wore a Silver Greyhound—indicating that he was on British Government business, urgent and pressing.”
The girl’s broad forehead whitened slightly. She recrossed her trim ankles. She tapped the desk before her with polished nails. She reached and adjusted a hairpin in her reddish knot, which added beauty to a resolute, somewhat bold face.
“I don’t know what business that is of yours!” she said.
Fay frowned. “It’s the people’s business! It’s Charles Mott’s business. Are you going to help me?”
“I never talk to strangers. You may be Mr. Mott’s representative. You may be connected with the Gray Brotherhood. How do I know?”
“You know what happened to your fare last night?”