He saw now that
she was a slender-limbed slip of a girl. The lean forearm, which
showed bare to the elbow when she raised it to draw the kimono closer
round her, told Clay that she was none too well nourished.
"I'll listen now to your fairy tale, Mr. Gumshoe Guy, but I wantta wise
you that I'm hep to men. Doncha try to string me," she advised.
Clay did not. It had occurred to him that she might give him
information of value. There was something friendly and kindly about
the humorous little mouth which parroted worldly wisdom so sagely and
the jargon of criminals so readily. He told her the story of Kitty
Mason. He could see by the girl's eyes that she had jumped to the
conclusion that he was in love with Kitty. He did not attempt to
disturb that conviction. It might enlist her sympathy.
"Honest, Annie, I believe this guy's on the level," the young woman
said aloud as though to herself. "If he ain't, he's sure a swell
mouthpiece. He don't look to me like no flat-worker--not with that mug
of his. But you never can tell."
"I'm not, Miss. My story's true." Eyes clear as the Arizona sky in a
face brown as the Arizona desert looked straight at her.
Annie Millikan had never seen a man like this before, so clean and
straight and good to look at. From childhood she had been brought up
on the fringe of that underworld the atmosphere of which is miasmic.
She was impressed in spite of herself.
"Say, why don't you go into the movies and be one of these here screen
ideals? You'd knock 'em dead," she advised flippantly, crossing her
bare ankles.
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