That young woman came up to say good-bye
to her new acquaintance.
"Will you be here when I get back?"
"Not if our friends outside give me a chance for a getaway," he told
her.
Her bright, unflinching eyes looked into his. "You'll come again and
let us know how you escaped," she invited.
"I'll ce'tainly do that, Miss Whitford."
"Then we'll look for you Thursday afternoon, say."
"I'll be here."
"If the police don't get you."
"They won't," he promised serenely.
"When you're quite ready, Bee," suggested Bromfield in a bored voice.
She nodded casually and walked out of the room like a young Diana,
straight as a dart in her trim slenderness.
Clay slipped out of the house by the back way, cut across to the
subway, and took a downtown train. He got out at Forty-Second Street
and made his way back to the clothing establishment of I. Bernstein.
That gentleman was in his office in the rear of the store. Lindsay
walked back to it, opened and closed the door, locked it, and put the
key in his pocket.
The owner of the place rose in alarm from the stool where he was
sitting. "What right do you got to lock that door?" he demanded.
"I don't want to be interrupted while I'm sellin' you this suit, Mr.
Bernstein," the cowpuncher told him easily, and he proceeded to unwrap
the damp package under his arm. "It's a pippin of a suit. The color
won't run or fade, and it's absolutely unshrinkable. You won't often
get a chance at a suit like this.
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