“You’re Millan, of the New York Recorder, aren’t you?” she asked. The cobalt blue eyes had darkened.
“Yep,” I said, “Ross Millan. Just plain Ross to you. How about dating me up? The demand’s brisk, but I can manage to-night.”
“What did you want to see Mr. Kruger about?”
Somehow I didn’t feel I was making much headway, but I wasn’t discouraged, “I’ll tell him that,” I said gently. “No offence meant, but this is a little matter between men. Women have their secrets too, you know.”
“Then you’d better come upstairs,” she said and turned and walked back the way she had come.
When we reached the top of the stairs I drew level and walked by her side. “I was just kidding,” I said suddenly. “Don’t let it get your vitamins in an uproar.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Could I have your name?” I went on, “I’d like to know how to introduce you to my friends.”
“Lydia Brandt,” she said, without turning her head, “and I don’t expect to meet your friends.”
“You never know,” I said. “Strange things happen.”