Page:The Whisper on the Stair by Lyon Mearson (1924).djvu/20

 was at present engaged in ponderously moving the sidewalk book racks into the store, preparatory to closing up for the night.

It was getting late, and one by one the street lights and the softer lights in office and residence windows flared into life, throwing the sidewalk in front into blacker relief. Masterson moved around creakily, lighting the antiquated gas jets in his store. He had never had electric lights installed—the ramshackle old building was not wired for electricity, and his store seldom was open in the evening.

A shadow halted at the door for a moment, hesitated, descended the steps and came in. Val looked up from his book. Even in the uncertain light he could see that there was a presence there—something out of the ordinary—a girl to be remembered. The mark of breeding was on her troubled face and on the garments she wore.

Her features were small and regular, with the flnest, wispiest tendrils of hair escaping from under her toque that you ever saw. Her finely modeled chin had a coquettishly determined cast to it that bespoke—along with the nose that barely hinted at being retroussé—a temper that was not always kept under the firmest control. The big, lustrous eyes were shaded by miraculously long, silky lashes that cast a shadow over dark eyes, pools at midnight under the moon. She was below medium height, with hands and feet that were almost ridiculously small to be used for the purpose of supporting a human body, and when she spoke the dimples in her fine cheeks came and went ravishingly. All this Val noted from his corner, approvingly. He shut the book.

He noticed her clothes, too. Quiet and in good