"Alla right. Now, you tella him when he comes again, O'Malley means——"
The voice dropped to so low a whisper that Violet could hear no more, and, before it was raised, the doorbell had sounded and she had heard Celeste, upstairs, calling her. She tiptoed back to the upper hallway.
"Cassie say you' New York Central frien' ees askin' for you," volunteered the French girl as they met.
"All right," answered Violet. "I'll be right down. I was trying to swipe a bottle. And say, Celeste, how does that Wesley Dyker come to have such a pull with Miss Rose?"
"Oh-h! You don' know? That Wes' Dyk' 'e mabby be a magistrate nex' 'lection. 'E's one gran' man now for bail an' lawyer when trouble come.—'Es's frien's with so many politicians, too. But Meess Rose, she know 'e will be some more eef 'e be 'lected magistrate."
"Oh, I see. But doesn't she keep standing in, on the quiet, with the other people who want the place, too?"
Celeste nodded a cheerful agreement.
"But of a certainty," she said. "Meess Rose, she know 'er beezness. Whoever get that 'lection, Meess Rose, she will 'ave been 'ees frien'."
Violet asked no more. She had learned enough to put into her hands the best weapon just then available.