He leaned forward and eyed Judith’s letter, reading it slowly, conning over the words, and when he straightened up there was a gleam of frank admiration in his eyes.
“You are a loyal woman, Judith,” he exclaimed, unconscious that he spoke aloud. “As well as ‘a bit of a gambler.’”
CHAPTER IX
HALF A SHEET
Polly Davis closed the vestibule door of her home in C Street with a veritable slam and proceeded up the street oblivious of greetings from several of her neighbors. The street, celebrated in its day for having among the occupants of its stately old-fashioned brick houses such personages as John C. Fremont, John C. Calhoun, and General Winfield Scott, was chiefly given over to modern business enterprises, and only a few “Cave-dwellers” (the name bestowed upon Washingtonians by an earnest “climber” to its exclusive resident circles) still occupied the homes of their ancestors.
Polly slackened her swift walk into a saunter as she turned the corner from C Street into John Marshall Place. On reaching D Street she accelerated her speed somewhat on catching sight of an approaching street car, but it did not stop to take on passengers, and Polly walked back to the curb with an uncomplimentary opinion of the service of one of Washington’s public utilities. She waited in indecision on the corner, then opening her hand bag, took from it a scrap of paper and consulted the name written thereon. After studying the paper for a minute, she turned and eyed the large, red brick and stone trimmed office building standing on the southeast corner facing the District Court House. She had seen the Fendall Building innumerable times since her childhood days, but never before had it held her interest.
There was a certain set air to Polly’s shoulders, which, to one acquainted with her characteristics, indicated obstinacy, as she crossed the street and entered the Fendall Building. She paused in the lobby in front of the floor directory and then continued to the second story. At the far end of the corridor she stopped before a closed door bearing on its ground glass the title, in gold lettering:
Burroughs Detective Agency
Alfred Burroughs, Prop.
Polly returned to her hand bag the scrap of paper which she still held tightly between the fingers of her left hand, took out a visiting card, and stepped inside the office. There was no one in the room, and, with a surprised glance about her, Polly crossed to a door evidently leading to an inner office. The door was only partly closed, and through the opening a familiar voice floated out to her:
“I depend upon your discretion, Mr. Burroughs. Remember, my name must not be mentioned in connection with your employment in the case—” The grating sound of chairs being pushed back followed, and any answer was drowned thereby.
The hand which Polly had extended to knock against the panel of the door fell nerveless to her side. With eyes distended to twice their normal size, she retraced her footsteps out of the office and the building.