The jacket was a bit tight but I didn't button it, and I'd just got a stiff little hat perched on my head when I heard the tramp of men on the sidewalk, and in the dusk saw the cop's buttons at the gate.
Caught? Not much. Not yet. I threw open the glass doors and walked out into the garden.
"Miss—Omar—I wonder if it would be Miss Omar?"
You bet I didn't take time to see who it was talking before I answered. Of course I was Miss Omar. I was Miss Anybody that had a right to wear skirts and be inside those blessed gates.
"Ah—h! I fancied you might be. I've been expecting you."
It was a lazy, low voice with a laugh in it, and it came from a wheeled chair, where a young man lay. Sallow he was and slim and long, and helpless—you could see that by his white hanging hands. But his voice—it was what a woman's voice would be if she were a man. It made you perk up and pretend to be somewhere near its level. It fitted his soft, black clothes and his fine, clean face. It meant silks and velvets and—
Oh, all right, Tommy Dorgan, if you're going to get jealous of a voice!
"Excuse me, Mr. Latimer." The cop came in as he spoke, Moriway following; the rest of the hounds hung about. "There's a thieving bell-boy from the hotel that's somewhere in your grounds. Can I come in and get him?"
"In here, Sergeant? Aren't you mistaken?"
"No; Mr. Moriway here saw him jump the gate not five minutes since."