"That sounds promising; what do you make it, shanty Irish?"
"I should say not," warmly. "She's a lady, all right. Oh, I know 'em, if I don't meet many of that kind. We got chummy enough, so she told me all about herself—her father's a big contractor and has money to burn."
"Did you ever hear the beat of that, Enright? Neddy is about to feather his nest. Well, go on."
"That's about all, I guess, only she ain't nothin' you need be afraid of."
"Sure not, with a watch-dog like you on guard. But if you ask me, I don't like the idea of her happening in here just at this time. This is no place for an innocent child," and she looked about, her lip curling. "Lord, I should say not. Do you happen to remember any New York contractor by that name, Mr. Enright?"
The rotund lawyer, his feet elevated on the window-sill, a cigar between his lips, shook his head in emphatic dissent.
"Not lately; there was a Tim Donovan who had a pull in the subway
excavation—he was a Tammany man—but he died, and was never married.
There may have been others, of course, but I had tab on most of them.
Did she mention his name, Beaton?"
"No; anyhow, I don't remember."
"What's the girl look like?"
"Rather slender, with brown hair, sorter coppery in the sun, and grey eyes that grow dark when she's interested. About twenty-three or four, I should say. She's a good-looker, all right; and not a bit stuck up."