“Presently,” cried the woman. “Who’s there?”
She tore open the collar of her waist while speaking, receiving no reply, then stepped to the door and opened it.
“I had not finished dressing,” she said impatiently, hastening to rehook the collar. “What do you want?”
Chick Carter was the person who had knocked, and none would have recognized him. Though fairly well clad and somewhat flashily, he had the sinister aspect of an East Side tough, or a man capable of any covert knavery.
Chick removed his hat and smiled, nevertheless, replying as politely as one would have expected:
“I want to talk with you for half a minute, or mebbe longer, Miss Payson, if you’re alone here.”
“Talk with me?” said Janet, with brows knitting. “What about, and who are you?”
“My name is Kennedy, Jim Kennedy, and I live in Philadelphia,” said Chick, dropping his voice suggestively. “I happened to be on the train last night when——”
“Wait! Stop a moment,” Janet curtly interrupted, drawing back. “Step inside. I don’t care to be seen talking with you. Close the door.”
“Sure,” Chick vouchsafed, with sinister intonation. “That hits me all right. It’s just what I wanted. But none would think less of you for talking with me, as far as that goes—not much!”