Page:Arthur Stringer--The House of Intrigue.djvu/349

329 looked down at me with that querulous condescension which marks the many-ribboned King-Charles spaniel in the motor-seat when it sniffs down at the ragged-eared street-waif that has had to scurry about the world for its daily bones. But I knew life. I knew which hand would be likely to toss a crust, and which one would heave a brick. I knew how to save my precious young neck. But about all your King-Charles could do was whimper for a softer cushion and a platter of fork-dipped chocolates! And for the first time in my life I didn't feel sorry that I'd been born little better than a street-waif.

"All right!" I amiably agreed as I swung the door shut behind me. And I even continued to feel rather superior as I went quietly down the broad stairs and strode determinedly on through the silent hallway. I tried to convince myself that I was thoroughly at my ease. I even stopped to button my glove, with a show of deliberation.

Then I went on again. And then I stopped for an altogether different reason.

I stopped because a shadow had fallen across the curtained door that stood between me and the outer world. The afternoon sunlight made this shadow quite distinct, and for a moment I suspected that