“I think,” he said, “that your brother ought to have provided for you. He could have done so with very little effort.”
“But what am I to do now?” she asked him. “If I am absent, I shall lose my place.”
“If you went round there and told them,” he suggested, “would that make any difference? I could stay until you came back.”
“Do you mind?” she asked eagerly. “It would be so kind of you.”
“Not at all,” he answered. “Perhaps you would be good enough to bring a taxicab back, and I could take it on to my rooms. Take one from here, if you can find it. There are always some at the corner.”
“I’d love to,” she answered. “I must run upstairs and get my hat and coat.”
He watched her go up on tiptoe for fear of disturbing her brother. Her feet seemed almost unearthly in the lightness of their pressure. Not a board creaked. She seemed to float down to him in a most becoming little hat but a shockingly shabby jacket, of whose deficiencies she seemed wholly unaware. Her lips were parted once more in a smile.
“He is fast asleep and breathing quite regularly,” she announced. “It is nice of you to stay.”
“Do you know,” he said, “you ought not to go about alone?”
“I took you for fourteen when I came inside,” he answered. “Afterwards I thought you might be sixteen. Later on, it seemed to me possible that you were eighteen. I am absolutely certain that you are not more than nineteen.”
“That shows how little you know about it. I am twenty, and I am quite used to going about alone. Will you sit upstairs or here? I am so sorry that I have nothing to offer you.”
“Thanks, I need nothing. I think I will sit upstairs in case he wakes.”
She nodded and stole out, closing the door behind her noiselessly. Laverick watched her from the window until she was out of sight, moving without any appearance of haste, yet with an incredible swiftness. When she had turned the corner, he went slowly upstairs and into the room where Morrison still lay asleep. He drew a chair to the bedside and leaning forward opened out the evening paper. The events of the last hour or so had completely blotted out from his mind, for the time being, his own expedition into the world of tragical happenings. He glanced at the sleeping man, then opened his paper. There was very little fresh news except that this time the fact was mentioned that upon the body of the murdered man was discovered a sum larger than was at first supposed. It seemed doubtful, therefore, whether robbery, after all, was the motive of the crime, especially as it took place in a neighborhood which was by no means infested with criminals. There was a suggestion of political motive, a reference to the “Black Hand,” concerning whose doings the papers had been full since the murder of a well-known detective a few weeks ago. But apart from this there was nothing fresh.