|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 31
He turned to the door, and the benevolent expression once more
wandered athwart his face.
"Extremely kind of Mr. Peters!" he said. "Really, there is
something almost Oriental in the lavish generosity of our
American cousins."
* * *
It had taken R. Jones just six hours to discover Joan Valentine's
address. That it had not taken him longer is a proof of his
energy and of the excellence of his system of obtaining
information; but R. Jones, when he considered it worth his while,
could be extremely energetic, and he was a past master at the art
of finding out things.
He poured himself out of his cab and rang the bell of Number
Seven. A disheveled maid answered the ring.
"Miss Valentine in?"
"Yes, sir."
R. Jones produced his card.
"On important business, tell her. Half a minute--I'll write it."
He wrote the words on the card and devoted the brief period of
waiting to a careful scrutiny of his surroundings. He looked out
into the court and he looked as far as he could down the dingy
passage; and the conclusions he drew from what he saw were
complimentary to Miss Valentine.
"If this girl is the sort of girl who would hold up Freddie's
letters," he mused, "she wouldn't be living in a place like this.
If she were on the make she would have more money than she
evidently possesses. Therefore, she is not on the make; and I am
prepared to bet that she destroyed the letters as fast as she got
them."
Those were, roughly, the thoughts of R. Jones as he stood in the
doorway of Number Seven; and they were important thoughts
inasmuch as they determined his attitude toward Joan in the
approaching interview. He perceived that this matter must be
handled delicately--that he must be very much the gentleman. It
would be a strain, but he must do it.
The maid returned and directed him to Joan's room with a brief
word and a sweeping gesture.
"Eh?" said R. Jones. "First floor?"
"Front," said the maid.
R. Jones trudged laboriously up the short flight of stairs. It
was very dark on the stairs and he stumbled. Eventually, however,
light came to him through an open door. Looking in, he saw a girl
standing at the table. She had an air of expectation; so he
deduced that he had reached his journey's end.
"Miss Valentine?"
"Please come in."
R. Jones waddled in.
"Not much light on your stairs."
"No. Will you take a seat?"
"Thanks."
One glance at the girl convinced R. Jones that he had been right.
Circumstances had made him a rapid judge of character, for in the
profession of living by one's wits in a large city the first
principle of offense and defense is to sum people up at first
sight. This girl was not on the make.
Joan Valentine was a tall girl with wheat-gold hair and eyes as
brightly blue as a November sky when the sun is shining on a
frosty world. There was in them a little of November's cold
glitter, too, for Joan had been through much in the last few
years; and experience, even though it does not harden, erects a
defensive barrier between its children and the world.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|