"Morgan, oh, Harry Morgan!" called a girl's voice.
Ronicky Doone started. Perhaps--who could tell--this might be Caroline Smith herself, come to tap at the door when he was on the very verge of abandoning the adventure. Suppose it were someone else?
If he ventured out expecting to find Gregg's lady and found instead quite another person--well, women screamed at the slightest provocation, and, if a woman screamed in this house, it seemed exceedingly likely that she would rouse a number of men carrying just such short-nosed, ugly automatics as that which he had just taken from the pocket of Harry Morgan.
In the meantime he must answer something. He could not pretend that the room was empty, for the light must be showing around the door.
"Harry!" called the voice of the girl again. "Do you hear me? Come out! The chief wants you!" And she rattled the door.
Fear that she might open it and, stepping in, see the senseless figure on the floor, alarmed Ronicky. He came close to the door.
"Well?" he demanded, keeping his voice deep, like the voice of Harry Morgan, as well as he could remember it.
He snapped out the light and turned resolutely to the door. He felt his faithful Colt, and the feel of the butt was like the touch of a friendly hand before he opened the door.
She was dressed in white and made a glimmering figure in the darkness of the hall, and her hair glimmered, also, almost as if it possessed a light and a life of its own. Ronicky Doone saw that she was a very pretty girl, indeed. Yes, it must be Caroline Smith. The very perfume of young girlhood breathed from her, and very sharply and suddenly he wondered why he should be here to fight the battle of Bill Gregg in this matter--Bill Gregg who slept peacefully and stupidly in the room across the street!
She had turned away, giving him only a side glance, as he came out. "I don't know what's on, something big. The chief's going to give you your big chance--with me."
"Don't do that," exclaimed the girl impatiently. "I know you think Pete is the top of the world, but that doesn't mean that you can make a good imitation of him. Don't do it, Harry. You'll pass by yourself. You don't need a make-up, and not Pete's on a bet."
They reached the head of the stairs, and Ronicky Doone paused. To go down was to face the mysterious chief whom he had no doubt was the old man to whom Harry Morgan had already referred. In the meantime the conviction grew that this was indeed Caroline Smith. Her free-and-easy way of talk was exactly that of a girl who might become interested in a man whom she had never seen, merely by letters.