“All right. I'm the bell-boy temporarily, Montgomery; easy now, my man, easy, or I'll be compelled to use both hands. 'Red,' carry the gentleman's luggage to '47'—he has kindly consented to give up his old room to a lady—come along, Montgomery.”
It was possibly five minutes later when he came down, still smoking, his face not even flushed.
“Montgomery is feeling so badly we were obliged to lock him in,” he reported to the clerk. “Seems to be of a somewhat nervous disposition. Well, good-night, Doctor,” he lifted his hat. “And to you, Miss, pleasant dreams.”
Hope watched him as he stepped outside, pausing a moment in the shadows to glance keenly up and down the long street before venturing down the steps. This quiet man had enemies, hundreds of them, desperate and reckless; ceaseless vigilance alone protected him. Yet her eyes only, and not her thoughts, were riveted on the disappearing marshal. She turned to Fairbain, who had risen to his feet.
“I wish I might see him, also,” she said, as though continuing an interrupted conversation.
“See him? Who?”
“Mr. Keith. I—I knew him once, and—and, Doctor, won't you tell him I should like to have him come and see me just—just as soon as he can.”
Chapter XXII. An Interrupted Interview
Miss Christie Maclaire, attired in a soft lounging robe, her luxuriant hair wound simply about her head, forming a decidedly attractive picture, gazed with manifest dissatisfaction on the bare walls of her room, and then out through the open window into the comparatively quiet street below. The bar-tender at the “Palace,” directly opposite, business being slack, was leaning negligently in the doorway. His roving eyes caught the fair face framed in the window, and he waved his hand encouragingly. Miss Christie's big brown eyes stared across at him in silent disgust, and then wandered again about the room, her foot tapping nervously on the rag carpet.