Page:Arthur Stringer--The House of Intrigue.djvu/130

118 mine?" I demanded, staring at her. But she never even winced.

"It was Mr. Bartlett's orders," she quietly explained.

"What do I care for Mr. Bartlett's orders?" I exploded. "I—"

"But Mr. Bartlett's orders are usually carried out in this house," she cut in. And she said it in a tone that reminded me of the bite of a rat-trap.

I could feel a hot wave go over me and by the time that wave had cooled off I could see what their dodge stood for. They weren't putting any too much faith in their street-cat, and they were cutting her claws for her. They were tying me down to that house until they got ready to let me go. They were deciding to keep me a prisoner there, until I carried out what they intended me to carry out.

But if they thought they had me trapped, by any cheap trick like that, they were going to find out they'd trapped a tartar.

So I stood there, waiting for my sense of humor to come back. It came, but it came by freight.

"Tell them to be sure and fumigate 'em!" I announced, as I sat down in front of the dressing-table again. "That's the procedure in most pens, I believe!"