Page:Arthur Stringer--The House of Intrigue.djvu/103

Rh "Exactly!"

"We merely want you to go to bed and rest—rest as though you were in your own home," he announced, washing his hands with invisible soap.

"And then what?"

The shrewd old eyes studied me closely.

"You see, you are a tired girl, very tired! A doctor, one of the best doctors in New York, will be here to make you comfortable. Then a document will be brought to you to sign. You will do this, and before midnight a closed carriage will take you to the Grand Central Station, you and your six hundred dollars."

I tried to put this all in order, at the back of my head.

"And what name must I sign to that document?" I inquired.

For nearly a second or two the old man hesitated.

"Clarissa Rhinelander Bartlett," he said.

He watched my face intently. A look of relief crept into his eyes when he realized that the name meant nothing to me. He even began to wash his hands again with that invisible soap of his.

"And who is this Clarissa Rhinelander Bartlett?" I asked. And still again the shifty-eyed old rat hesitated for a moment or two.