The girl snickered. "Don't be silly. You're—" she looked both ways down the hall and then said cautiously "—Mr. Cullen?"
"Eh?" said Lucas, taken a little aback. "You know me, eh?"
"I've heard about you," the girl corrected. "Do you want to come in?" And she opened the door wider.
Lucas entered, and she shut the door. The windows of the room into which he stepped were protected by double shades, both of which were drawn; but a pink encased electric lamp fairly well illumined an expensively papered, imitation walnut trimmed room of good size furnished with tapestried, walnut chairs, table and telephone stand and stool; what evidently was sometimes a lounge to match now had been extended into a double bed, upon one side of which Miss Platt's husband lay with arms stretched out and head thrown back, sleeping heavily.
"Huh!" Lucas ejaculated with deep disgust. "Drunk, too!"
"What you talking 'bout?" the girl rejoined. "I'm not drunk."
"I didn't say you were," Lucas replied, without looking about at her. "I said he was drunk—on top of being here with you."
"Oh!" said the girl, and snickered again unoffended. "Yes; he's got a perfectly rotten stomach for gin; and he does like rickeys." She perched herself unconcernedly on the arm of a chair beside Lucas, displaying even more of her figure; but Lucas did not notice her at all. Though he had talked to Kincheloe several times over the telephone and frequently had sent him money, Lucas had not seen him since he had come to
