And the detective said:
“I think it would. Suppose you send her to me.”
“Here?”
“Yes. Or no, let her come to the back parlor, which is more private.”
“Very; well.”
Nick Carter had been an inmate of the back parlor only a few minutes when the rustling of a dress told him of the approach of a lady.
Rising as she entered, he found himself facing a lady of most striking and graceful proportions, with queenly carriage. She was a person once seen, seldom forgotten, which fact, trivial as it was, had weight for him.
“Pray be seated!”
She uttered those words with the air and tone of one who had been accustomed to receiving and speaking with strangers.
Her self-possession could never have been obtained save by familiarity with the duties of a hostess.