They had reached the thirteenth floor. She pressed the key in Florence’s reluctant hand.
A tall man, with an arm load of socks in bundles, got on the car. He looked at Florence. He looked at her double. Then he stared at both of them. After that his large mouth spread apart in a broad grin as he chuckled:
“Pretty good. Eh?”
Three minutes later Florence found herself in a kind of daze, standing at the tenth floor landing, staring down at her steadily dropping car.
“Oh, well,” she whispered, shaking herself out of her daze, “sort of a lark, I suppose. No harm in it. Might as well have a half day off.” With that she turned and walked toward the locker room.
The coat and hat she took from the mysterious one’s locker were very plain and somewhat worn, not as good as her own. But the fur throw was a thing to marvel at; a crossed fox, the real thing, no dyed imitation, and so richly marked with gray that it might easily be taken for a silver gray.
“Some strange little combination,” she breathed as she threw the fur about her neck and started once more for the elevator.
As a proof of the fact that she was carrying out her share of the compact, she waited for her own elevator. The strange girl shot her a quick smile as she entered and another as she got off on the third floor where was the rest room and book section.
“Seems terribly queer to be walking around in another girl’s clothes,” she whispered to herself as she drifted aimlessly past rows of people resting in leather cushioned chairs. “Especially when that other girl is someone you’ve spoken to but once in your life. I wonder—I do wonder why I did it?”
She meditated on this question until she had reached the book section.