“Well, you’re a queer one! Thanks. Guess I’ll turn
Mary Cresswell turned to see her husband and his companions ascending the steps of the quiet mansion.
She stood uncertainly and looked at the opening and closing door.
Then a policeman came by and looked at her.
“Come, move on,” he brusquely ordered. Her vacillation promptly vanished, and she resolutely mounted the steps. She put out her hand to ring, but the door flew silently open and a manservant stood looking at her.
“I have some friends here,” she said, speaking coarsely.
“You will have to be introduced,” said the man. She hesitated and started to turn away. Thrusting her hand in her pocket it closed upon her husband’s card-case. She presented a card. It worked a rapid transformation in the servant’s manner, which did not escape her.
“Come in,” he invited her.
She did not stop at the outstretched arm of the cloakman, but glided quickly up the stairs toward a vision of handsome women and strains of music.
Harry Cresswell was sitting opposite and bending over an impudent blue-and-blonde beauty.
Mary slipped straight across to him and leaned across the table. The hat fell off, but she let it go.
“Harry!” she tried to say as he looked up.