Prisoner's Base

She was right at home. One of the beds had been turned down, and its coverlet, neatly folded, was on the other bed. Seated at a table near a window, under a reading lamp, doing something to her nails, she was in the blue negligee and barefooted. She looked smaller than she had in the peach-colored dress, and younger.

"I had given you up," she said, not complaining. "In another ten minutes I'll be in bed."

"I doubt it. You'll have to get dressed. Mr. Wolfe wants you down in the office."

"Now?"

"Now."

"Why can't he come up here?"

I looked at her. In that getup, to me she was a treat; to Wolfe, in his own house, she would have been an impudence. "Because there's no chair on this floor big enough for him. I'll wait outside."

I went to the hall, pulling the door to. I was not prancing or preening. True, it was I who had hooked onto something that had turned out to be worth ten grand to us, but I saw no acceptable way of cashing it in, and I had no idea what line Wolfe was going to take. I had stated my position, and he had chuckled.

It didn't take her long to dress, which scored another point for her. When she emerged, back in the peach color, she came to me, asking, "Is he very mad?"

I told her nothing alarming. The stairs are wide enough for two abreast, and we descended side by side, her fingers on my arm. That struck me as right and appropriate. I had told Wolfe that she was mine, thereby assuming a duty as well as claiming a privilege.

I may have stuck out my chest some as we entered the office together, though it was involuntary.

She marched across to his desk, extended a hand, and told him cordially, "You look exactly right! Just as I thought! I would-"

She broke it off because she was getting a deep freeze. He had moved no muscle, and the expression on his face, while not belligerent, was certainly not cordial. She drew back.

He spoke. "I don't shake hands with you because you might later think it an imposition. We'll see. Sit down, Miss Eads."

She did all right, I thought. It's not a comfortable spot, having an offered hand refused, whatever the explanation may be. After drawing back, she flushed, opened her mouth and closed it, glanced at me and back at Wolfe, and, apparently deciding that restraint was called for, moved toward the red leather chair. But short of it she suddenly jerked around and demanded, "What did you call me?"

"Your name. Eads."

Flabbergasted, she stared. She transferred the stare to me. "How?" she asked, "Why didn't you tell me? But how?"