"Now, Miss Amy Holmes, if you will sit down opposite me, we will talk things over."
She started violently, and turned toward me with a stare of surprise, in which, however, I could observe no fear. The name had caused her astonishment. I had been careful to address her by her stage name, or rather the one she chose to use at the theater. I hardly suppose her real name to be Holmes,—probably it is Smith or Jones instead.
She let the hand holding the rose drop at her side, but did not loosen her grasp of the flower.
"Look here," she exclaimed, sharply. "Where did you pick up that name? and what kind of a game are you giving me, anyhow?"
After the surprise occasioned by the utterance of her discarded name, my altered tone and manner had next impressed her.
"I got that name where I got several others, Miss Amy, and the game I am playing is one that is bound to win."
She sat down upon the nearest chair, and stared mutely.
"How would you like to go back to Amora, Miss Holmes? Or to Groveland and the widow Ballou's?"
She sprang up with her eyes flashing, and made a sudden dash for the door. Of course it resisted her effort to open it.