the moonlight were nothing to Ralph O. Tate. Nothing but picture hokum.
“See you later?” he asked significantly.
“Why not?” agreed Phyllis La Fond.
At that moment Dr. O’Rourke was depositing Miss Withers in front of the St. Lena. “I still think you’re barking up the wrong tree,” he was saying. “But the chief is worried all the same. He’s not even going to wait for the county coroner, but got the order over the telephone. Pleasant as our dances this evening have been, you’ve let me in for a very unpleasant chore tomorrow morning. And the sum total of my discoveries will be nothing.”
“Quite possibly,” said Hildegarde Withers tartly. “But there’s something to be found if you’re capable of finding it. Good-night, Doctor, and good luck.”
Dr. O’Rourke took off his Panama. “I’ll phone you in the morning to report that I was right and that Forrest died from natural causes.”
“Hmph!” snorted Hildegarde Withers and went abruptly into the hotel, past the drowsing desk clerk, and up the stairway. Safe in her room at the head of the stairs, she picked up her antique watch from the bureau and stared at it.
“Quarter of one! And a fine time for a quiet old maid to be getting to sleep!” she scolded herself. But it was to be a later hour than that before she touched her waiting pillow.
She was sitting before her mirror, sending a brush vigorously through her brown tresses in which very little gray as yet revealed itself, and while she counted the strokes her mind was busily exercising itself with such problems as why a bodyguard should take a boat when his endangered ward was aboard a plane, and why Tate was worried about his flask, and why a little dog named Mister Jones had become violently ill aboard the Dragonfly.
“Eighty-seven,” said Miss Withers determinedly. “Eighty-eight, eighty-nine.” It was at that moment that she became aware of a faint noise in the adjoining room. Her brush went on, but she stopped counting.
Everything was still—and then she heard it again. It was a soft, a furtive noise—evidently a noise that no one was meant to hear. But those were the noises for which this canny lady had learned to listen.
She rose to her feet and put down the brush. Then she gathered her flannel bathrobe more closely around her bony frame and went to the hall door.
She stopped short at the sound of voices outside. She could make out the irrepressible Tompkins, singing “Dixie” considerably off key.
Someone hushed him, and he apologized even more loudly. “Tha’s my favorite tune,” he confided.
Miss Withers shook her head. Then she crossed the room to the large window which led onto the balcony and flung it open. The night was thick and misty, and already the moon was hidden. There was no one to see her on the balcony, and she slipped swiftly out. Phyllis’s window was dark, but she rapped sharply on the open pane.
For a moment there was no answer, and then—“Who is it?”
Miss Withers announced herself and then without further ceremony climbed through into the room. A warm tongue caressed her bare ankles—Mister Jones remembered her. As her eyes became accustomed to the darkness she could make out Phyllis La Fond lying face downward across her bed, still dressed in the crimson gown.
Her shoulders were shaking with the soft, choking sobs that Miss Withers had heard from the next room.
The uninvited guest hesitated for a moment, then produced a fresh handkerchief from the pocket of her flannel robe and offered it.
As Phyllis dabbed at her eyes, Miss Withers went into the bathroom, found a washcloth, and wrung it out under the cold-water faucet.
“Here,” she advised. “Wipe your eyes.”
Phyllis started to sit up and then buried her face in the pillow.
“Come, come,” said Miss Withers. “It isn’t as bad as all that, is it? I’ll go if you want to be alone, but I couldn’t help hearing.”
“S-sorry I’m such a ba-baby,” sobbed the girl
“See you later?” he asked significantly.
“Why not?” agreed Phyllis La Fond.
At that moment Dr. O’Rourke was depositing Miss Withers in front of the St. Lena. “I still think you’re barking up the wrong tree,” he was saying. “But the chief is worried all the same. He’s not even going to wait for the county coroner, but got the order over the telephone. Pleasant as our dances this evening have been, you’ve let me in for a very unpleasant chore tomorrow morning. And the sum total of my discoveries will be nothing.”
“Quite possibly,” said Hildegarde Withers tartly. “But there’s something to be found if you’re capable of finding it. Good-night, Doctor, and good luck.”
Dr. O’Rourke took off his Panama. “I’ll phone you in the morning to report that I was right and that Forrest died from natural causes.”
“Hmph!” snorted Hildegarde Withers and went abruptly into the hotel, past the drowsing desk clerk, and up the stairway. Safe in her room at the head of the stairs, she picked up her antique watch from the bureau and stared at it.
“Quarter of one! And a fine time for a quiet old maid to be getting to sleep!” she scolded herself. But it was to be a later hour than that before she touched her waiting pillow.
She was sitting before her mirror, sending a brush vigorously through her brown tresses in which very little gray as yet revealed itself, and while she counted the strokes her mind was busily exercising itself with such problems as why a bodyguard should take a boat when his endangered ward was aboard a plane, and why Tate was worried about his flask, and why a little dog named Mister Jones had become violently ill aboard the Dragonfly.
“Eighty-seven,” said Miss Withers determinedly. “Eighty-eight, eighty-nine.” It was at that moment that she became aware of a faint noise in the adjoining room. Her brush went on, but she stopped counting.
Everything was still—and then she heard it again. It was a soft, a furtive noise—evidently a noise that no one was meant to hear. But those were the noises for which this canny lady had learned to listen.
She rose to her feet and put down the brush. Then she gathered her flannel bathrobe more closely around her bony frame and went to the hall door.
She stopped short at the sound of voices outside. She could make out the irrepressible Tompkins, singing “Dixie” considerably off key.
Someone hushed him, and he apologized even more loudly. “Tha’s my favorite tune,” he confided.
Miss Withers shook her head. Then she crossed the room to the large window which led onto the balcony and flung it open. The night was thick and misty, and already the moon was hidden. There was no one to see her on the balcony, and she slipped swiftly out. Phyllis’s window was dark, but she rapped sharply on the open pane.
For a moment there was no answer, and then—“Who is it?”
Miss Withers announced herself and then without further ceremony climbed through into the room. A warm tongue caressed her bare ankles—Mister Jones remembered her. As her eyes became accustomed to the darkness she could make out Phyllis La Fond lying face downward across her bed, still dressed in the crimson gown.
Her shoulders were shaking with the soft, choking sobs that Miss Withers had heard from the next room.
The uninvited guest hesitated for a moment, then produced a fresh handkerchief from the pocket of her flannel robe and offered it.
As Phyllis dabbed at her eyes, Miss Withers went into the bathroom, found a washcloth, and wrung it out under the cold-water faucet.
“Here,” she advised. “Wipe your eyes.”
Phyllis started to sit up and then buried her face in the pillow.
“Come, come,” said Miss Withers. “It isn’t as bad as all that, is it? I’ll go if you want to be alone, but I couldn’t help hearing.”
“S-sorry I’m such a ba-baby,” sobbed the girl
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