Sitting up in bed, openly careless
of charms hardly concealed by nightwear of sheer silk lace and _crepe
de Chine_, she looked P. Sybarite up and down with wide eyes overwise
in the ways of life, shrewdly judicious of mankind; handled her pistol
with experienced confidence; spoke, in a voice of surpassing
sweetness, with decision and considerable overt contempt for the
phraseology of convention--swearing without the least affectation,
slanging heartily when slang best suited her humour....
"Maybe you're telling the truth, at that," she announced suddenly,
eyes coldly unprepossessed. "You sound fishy as all-hell, and God
_knows_ you're the sickest-looking cop I ever laid eyes on; but there
are less unlikely things than that a second-story man should try this
route for his getaway.... Well!" she demanded urgently--"what're you
standing there for, like a stone man?"
"My dear lady--!" expostulated the dismayed P. Sybarite.
"Can the fond stuff and get busy. What're you going to do?"
"What am I--? What--ah--do you wish me to do?"
"If you're a cop, go to it--cop somebody," she replied with a brusque
laugh--"and then clear out. I can use the room and time you're
occupying. Besides, while you stand there staring as if you'd never
seen a good-looking woman in a nightgown before, you're slipping the
said burglar a fine young chance to make the front door--unless he's
under the bed.
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