Maggie opened this door. "They're all in the little hallway--I don't
think they'll see you," her rapid, agitated whisper went on. "Don't
take the elevators in this corridor, they're in plain sight. There are
elevators just around the corner. Take them; they're safer. Good-bye,
Larry--and, oh, Larry, don't ever take such a risk again!"
With that she pushed him out and closed the door.
Larry followed her instructions about the elevator; he used the same
precautions in leaving that he had used in coming, and twenty minutes
later he was back in his room in the Sherwood apartment. For an hour
or more he sat motionless--thinking--thinking: asking himself
questions, but in his tumultuous state of mind and emotions not able
to keep to a question long enough to reason out its possible answer.
Just what was that game in which Maggie was involved?--a game which
required that Grantham setting, that eminently respectable companion,
and Maggie's accouterment as a young lady of obvious wealth.
Whose was that vaguely familiar second voice?--that voice which he
still could not place.
But what he thought about most of all was something very different.
What had caused that swift change in Maggie?--from a fury that was
both fire and granite, to that pallid, quivering, whispering girl who
had so rapidly led him safely out of his danger.
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