“Do you, gentlemen?” Dr. MacArthur turned toward Harrison and Bear Sterling.
“Plenty of time for that,” Hoffbein inserted. “Check the supply sources first.”
When Rathbone was gone they felt as though a strong support had been removed. His incisive uprightness rested them; but he had shot them so full of information they were still dazed when Miss Roenna Kerr entered.
She came, her hair waved, her face firmly set, the bust and rear defiantly inflated, her enraged vitals midway between. She had been there as long as any of them. Her work had always been perfect. She wore her new pair of bunion-rest shoes.
Princeton Peters took her arm in his, patted her hand and murmured:
“Dear Miss Kerr, brace up!”
He eased her into the “witness chair” and tiptoed back to his own.
He was worth a million dollars to the Elijah Wilson ... in his way. To every other man in the room she had appeared too braced!
In response to their “good morning,” she smiled, generally, cocked her head on one side and said to MacArthur:
“You sent for me, Doctor?”