"I think so, Ma'am," said the smiling maid and ushered us into the presence of the out-going tenant. A tour of the rooms at express speed showed the flat to be a desirable one enough. There were three years to run and the rent was not extortionate—for the times.
"I'll sign the agreement now," said I.
"Half-a-minute," said the out-going tenant as he produced the documents; "I'll get a pen and ink."
The whirr of an electric bell resounded through the flat.
"Quick!" panted Betty. "Your fountain pen." I produced it and wrote my name with a hand trembling with eagerness.
"A gentleman about the flat, Sir," said the maid, and, haggard, pale and exhausted, our defeated rival staggered into the room.
He looked at us with a dumb agony in his eyes, and neither of us two men had the courage to deal the fatal blow. It was Betty who spoke.
"I'm sorry, but we've just taken this flat," she said sweetly, and added with true feminine cruelty, "I saw it first, you know."
The stranger lost control and crashed badly on the hearth-rug.
"Poor man," said Betty to the late tenant. "Be kind to him for our sakes." Then she led the way to our cab.