A night-wind from the Pacific was creaking a grocer’s sign down below, swaying the arc-light above. The wind caught the woman as she passed out of our building’s sheltered area. Coat and skirts tangled. She put her back to the wind, a hand to her hat. Her veil whipped out straight from her face.
Her face was a face from a photograph—Myra Banbrock’s face.
Dick made her with me.
“Our Baby!” he cried, bouncing to his feet.
“Wait,” I said. “She’s going into the joint on the edge of the hill. Let her go. We’ll go after her when she’s inside. That’s our excuse for frisking the joint.”
I went into the next room, where our telephone was, and called Pat Reddy’s number.
“She didn’t go in,” Dick called from the window. “She went past the path.”
“After her!” I ordered. “There’s no sense to that! What’s the matter with her?” I felt sort of indignant about it. “She’s got to go in! Tail her. I’ll find you after I get Pat.”
Dick went.
Pat’s wife answered the telephone. I told her who I was.
“Will you shake Pat out of the covers and send him up here? He knows where I am. Tell him I want him in a hurry.”