"Well, damn little got out here, and Lacy pumped the most of that out of me. However, if you feel like kicking about this room, you ought to see some of the others—mine, for instance, or the one Timmons put that other woman in."
"Oh, yes," she said, finding a seat and staring at him. "That reminds me. Did you say there was a girl here from New York? Never mind quarrelling about the room, I'll endure it all right; it makes me think of old times," and she laughed mirthlessly. "Sit down, Mr. Enright, and let's talk. How's the door, Ned?"
He opened it and glanced out into the hall, throwing the bolt as he came back.
"All right, Celeste, but I wouldn't talk quite so loud; the partitions are not very tight."
"No objections to a cigarette, I suppose," and she produced a case. "Thanks; now I feel better—certainly, light up. Well, Ned, the first thing I want to know is, who is this other New York skirt, and how did she happen to blow in here just at this time?"
Beaton completed the lighting of his cigar, flinging the match carelessly out of the window.
"Oh, she's all right," he said easily. "Just an innocent kid writer for Scribbler's who's trying to make good writing about the beautiful scenery around here. I was a bit suspicious of her at first myself, but picked her up this morning an' we had quite a talk. Mighty pretty little girl."
Miss La Rue elevated her eyebrows, watchfully regarding him through smoke wreaths.
"Oh, cut it, Ned," she exclaimed curtly. "We all know you are a perfect devil with the women. The poor thing is in love with you, no doubt, but that doesn't answer my question, who is she?"
"Her name is Donovan."