Page:Arthur Stringer--The House of Intrigue.djvu/177

Rh It was my turn to gasp. For the woman I stood staring at was Copperhead Kate herself.

"So you're sloughin' this beat too!" she said, before I had time to speak. There was something more than audacity on her face. It was more than antagonism; it was hatred. So I made it a point to keep the automatic still leveled in her direction.

"What are you doing here?" I demanded, with a hand-wave toward the club-bag on the rug-end. She laughed a hard and reckless laugh.

"Playing about the same game that you're trying to play," was her brazen retort as she viewed me and my flimsy apparel. "But still sleeping home!"

I didn't worry over her one-sided smile, for I never did possess one of those three-ring brains that could all keep busy at the same time. And I had considerable thinking to do at that particular moment.

"Well, I guess you can get ready to play my game for a little while," I told her quite casually. But I kept the gun where it was. I had reason enough for hating that woman. I couldn't help hating her. And this was the first time in my life I didn't have to play second fiddle to her.

"What game?" she demanded. Her smoky