Then other words reached his ears, and a familiar voice.
“Holy smoke! it’s the chief himself,” he muttered. “He just inquired for Sheldon, or Floyd. He has just arrived in Sheldon’s suite, as sure as I’m a foot high, instead of interviewing Kate Crandall. He already has seen her, mebbe, and——”
Patsy’s inference was correct, but his rapid train of thought ended abruptly. He heard a sound from the direction of the stairs. He thought some one was ascending them.
“Gee! I must not be caught playing the spy here,” flashed through his mind. “Nor must I lose the chance of doing so later. I’ll hide in the side entry.”
He darted toward it on the instant, eager to round the corner before the approaching person could arrive at the head of the stairs—on which Patsy still supposed him to be.
He had, however, mistaken the precise direction of the sound. He moved like a flash, yet as noiselessly as a shadow. He turned the corner at nearly top speed and[Pg 30] collided violently with another—none other than Mr. Philip Floyd.
Patsy needed no introduction to him. The description of him provided by Nancy Nordeck and Mrs. Darling was fresh in his mind. There could be no mistaking him under the circumstances—his dark face, his piercing black eyes, and his drooping black mustache.
Yes, Patsy recognized him instantly—but with an unexpected discovery and a thrill that went through him like an electric shock from head to foot.
For the figure with which he had collided, that he had seized in his arms to prevent a fall, that at once began to struggle to free itself from his involuntary embrace, was not the figure of a man.
It was the supple, yielding figure of—a woman!