He said: “Are you afraid of me–now, Violet?” They slinked down the alley and seeing a light in the back room of a store, Fenn stopped and went up to peer in.
“Come on,” he said. “He’s in.”
Fenn tapped on the barred window and whistled three 376notes. A voice inside cried, “All right, Henry–soon’s I get this column added up.”
The woman shrank back, but Fenn held her arm. Then the door opened, and the moon face of Mr. Brotherton appeared in a flood of light. He saw the woman, without recognizing her, and laughed:
“Are we going to have a party? Come right in, Marianna–here’s the moated Grange, all right, all right.”
As they entered, he tried to see her face, but she dropped her head. Fenn asked, “Why, George–don’t you know her? It’s Violet–Violet Mauling–who married Denny Hogan who was killed last winter.”
George Brotherton looked at the painted face, saw the bald attempt at coquetry in her dress, and as she lifted her glazed, dead eyes, he knew her story instantly.
For she wore the old, old mask of her old, old trade.
“You poor, poor girl,” he said gently. Then continued, “Lord–but this is tough.”
He saw the miserable creature beside him and would have smiled, but he could not. Fenn began,