Where they get cloaks like that is a mystery. You see 'em on women panhandlers, on the old hags that camp on park benches, and in the jag line at police courts. But you never see a new one. Perhaps they're made special by second-hand shops for the female party trade.
"Well?" says I, lookin' her over cold and curious.
But you can't faze a female party so simple. They're used to that. She stares back at me just as cool, and then remarks, "I guess you know who I am well enough."
"Sure!" says I. "You're the long lost Duchess of Gainsborough, ain't you?"
She just gazes at me brassy and shakes her head.
"Then you must be a lady snake agent," says I.
"What?" says she, scowlin' puzzled.
"I don't know the answer, either," says I. "Called for Professor McCabe, didn't you? Well, you're connected. Shoot the rest of it."
"I'm Mrs. Fletcher Shaw," says she.
And for a minute there I couldn't place the name. Then it came to me. "Oh!" says I. "Some relation of Josie Vernon's, eh?"