“I don’t know. She didn’t have herself announced; she went straight on up. Ben!” motioning to the elevator boy, “where did the slender woman, you just took up, get off?”
“At the fou’th flo’, Miss Williams,” said Ben. “She went into fo’ one.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Yas, Miss,” the negro grinned, “I waited to see.”
Miss Williams nodded a dismissal.
“Four one is Chartrands’ apartment,” she remarked.
“Is this the lady of the ripples?” Harleston asked, handing her the photograph of Madeline Spencer.
“Sure thing!” she exclaimed. “That’s she, all right. How in the world did you ever—pardon me, Mr. Harleston, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You’re not meddling, Miss Williams. But it’s a long story—too long to detail now. Some day soon I’ll confide in you, for you’ve helped me very much in this matter and deserve to know. In fact, you’ve helped me more than you can imagine. Meanwhile mum’s the word, remember.”
“Mum, it is, Mr. Harleston,” she replied, “For once a telephone girl won’t leak, even to her best friends.”