"You're to use another name. I've picked out Margaret Cameron for you.
We can call you Maggie and it won't be a slip-up--see? If any of the
coppers who know you should tumble on to you, just tell 'em you
dropped your own name so's to get clear of your old life. They can't
do anything to you. And tell 'em you inherited a little coin; that's
why you're living so swell. They can't do anything about that either.
. . . Here's where we get out. Got a sitting-room, two bedrooms and a
bath hired for you here. But we'll soon move you into a classier
hotel."
The taxi had stopped in front of one of the unpretentious, respectable
hotels in the Thirties, just off Fifth Avenue, and Maggie followed the
two men in. This hotel did, indeed, in its people, its furnishings,
its atmosphere, seem sober and commonplace after the Ritzmore; but at
the Ritzmore she had been merely a cigarette-girl, a paid onlooker at
the gayety of others. Here she was a real guest--here her great life
was beginning! Maggie's heart beat wildly.
Up in her sitting-room Barney introduced her to Miss Grierson, then
departed with a significant look at Old Jimmie, saying he would return
presently and leaving Old Jimmie behind. Old Jimmie withdrew into a
corner, turned to the racing part of the Evening Telegram, which, with
the corresponding section of the Morning Telegraph, was his sole
reading, and left Maggie to the society of Miss Grierson.
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