The girl swung in the chair and glanced at Rake. Her eyes opened to brown pools of protest. She brought both feet down on the rug and rose with her hand on the back of the chair.
“You both better go.”
“Just a minute. You know Putney Stephney?”
“Perhaps I do.”
“You know what happened to him?”
“No!”
“Do you want to know?”
“See here!” The girl’s voice indicated reserve strength. “See here! This is my office. We—I, am obeying the law. Our business is of such a nature that we do not talk to strangers. To tell you frankly, I detest people who ask too many questions.”
Fay took the thrust with good humor. “They’re not all the same,” he said, moving closer to the girl and regarding her with admiration. “Now you, for instance, know full well that I didn’t come here without being pretty sure of my ground. You’ll have to answer my questions, or you will be called to account for a number of nasty accusations. Mr. Mott is your friend—he also is my friend!”
The girl turned helplessly toward the closed door. She tapped her foot on the rug. She bent her head.