He sped on ahead and parleyed with Kit; and while they talked I held aloft the little pin so that Kit might see the price.
She hesitated so long that I feared she'd slip through my hands, but a sudden rival voice piping out, "I'll show ye the house, Missus," was too much for her.
So, with Kit at a safe distance in advance to guard against treachery, and a large and enthusiastic following, I crossed the street, turned a corner, walked down one block and half up another, and halted before a three-story brownstone.
I flew up the stairs, leaving my escort behind, and rang the bell. It wasn't so terribly swagger a place, which relieved me some.
"I want to see the lady whose baby was lost this morning," I said to the maid that opened the door.
Who? That stumped me. Not Nance Olden, late of the Vaudeville, later of the Van Twiller, and latest of the police station. No--not Nance Olden . . . not . . .
"Tell her, please," I said firmly, "that I'm Miss Murieson, of the X-Ray, and that the city editor has sent me here to see her."
That did it. Hooray for the power of the press! She showed me into a long parlor, and I sat down and waited.
This article is from a submission and does not represent an emotional stance. If infringement occurs, please contact us：http://cfapx.raglanmtb.com/news/171d799281.html