"Beg pardon, sir!" It was Myrtle.
"Yes, Mary?"
"Mrs. Rutherford is back, sir. She wants to see you."
"Tell her I am not at home," I replied in a clear carrying tone. "And that I never will be at home to her."
"Oh, yes, you will." It was the red-head. She was wearing a long mink coat and carrying a short automatic pistol. "Like it or not, Winnie, we are going to have a talk—now." She turned to the startled maid. "And don't you try phoning the police, Myrtle," she added, "or the first thing you will hear is this pistol going pop at Mr. Winfred Tompkins of New York City and Bedford Hills."
"That's all right, Mary," I added. "Don't call the police. Tell Mrs. Tompkins that I'm busy. Mrs. Rutherford and I wish to have a conversation."
[CHAPTER 5]
As the door to the room slammed convulsively behind Myrtle, Mrs. Rutherford relaxed, laid the automatic on the sofa between us, and flung back her mink coat. She was an appetizing little number, if you like 'em red-haired, well-developed and mad through and through.
Instinctively I started to reach for the gun but was checked by her laugh.