Eyes like jet beads were
fastened on him. In them he read indignation struggling with fear.
"Say, what are you anyhow--a moll buzzer? If you're a porch-climber
out for the props you've sure come to the wrong dump. I got nothin'
but bum rocks."
This was Greek to Clay. He did not know that she had asked him if he
were a man who robs women, and that she had told him he could get no
diamonds there since hers were false.
The Arizonan guessed at once that he was not in the room mentioned in
the letter. He slipped his revolver back into its place between shirt
and trousers.
"Is this house number 121?" he asked.
"No, it's 123. What of it?"
"It's the wrong house. I'm ce'tainly one chump."
The black eyes lit with sardonic mockery. The young woman knew already
that she had nothing to fear from this brown-faced man. His face was
not that of a thug. It carried its own letter of recommendation
written on it. Instinctively she felt that he had not come to rob. A
lively curiosity began to move in her.
"Say, do I look like one of them born-every-minute kind?" she asked
easily. "Go ahead and spring that old one on me about how you got
tanked at the club and come in at the window on account o' your wife
havin' a temper somethin' fierce."
"No, I--I was lookin' for some one else. I'm awful sorry I scared you.
I'd eat dirt if it would do any good, but it won't. I'm just a plumb
idiot. I reckon I'll be pushin' on my reins.
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