“Yes, a nigger. Her name’s Hattie. You going to buy her, Abe?”
“We don’t have to. She’s our witness anyway,” added the little fat attorney, with a hint of a grin.
At that moment a key rattled in the kitchen door.
CHAPTER XXVII
AS Eris was entirely alone in the apartment at night, it had been her custom to lock and bolt her chamber door,—a rough neighbourhood and rear fire-escapes making it advisable.
So now, when the rapping on her bed-room door aroused her, she rose mechanically, still drugged with sleep, made her way blindly to the door, and unlocked it.
As she opened her door so that Hattie could enter and draw her morning bath, the sight of the coloured woman’s agitated features startled her.
Suddenly a glimpse of Graydon in the living-room beyond brought the girl to her shocked senses.
There seemed to be another man there, too—a fat, bald, bland little man who smiled and bowed to her, flourished a straw hat, clapped it on his shiny head, and immediately waddled out of the apartment.
For one dreadful moment a premonition of disaster paralysed the girl, blanched her face.