Pett opened her eyes. This woman was manifestly competent at
her work.
"Have you found that out already?"
"D'rectly saw him." Miss Trimble opened her purse. "Go' one 'f
his photographs here. Brought it from office. He's th' man that's
wanted 'll right."
"Mr. Sturgis and I both think he is working with the other man,
the one who pretends to be my nephew."
"Sure. I'll fix 'm."
She returned the photograph to her purse and snapped the catch
with vicious emphasis.
"There is another possibility," said Mrs. Pett. "My nephew, Mr.
William Partridge, had invented a wonderful explosive, and it is
quite likely that these men are here to try to steal it."
"Sure. Men'll do anything. If y' put all the men in th' world in
th' cooler, wouldn't be 'ny more crime."
She glowered at the dog Aida, who had risen from the basket and
removing the last remains of sleep from her system by a series of
calisthenics of her own invention, as if she suspected her of
masculinity. Mrs. Pett could not help wondering what tragedy in
the dim past had caused this hatred of males on the part of her
visitor. Miss Trimble had not the appearance of one who would
lightly be deceived by Man; still less the appearance of one whom
Man, unless short-sighted and extraordinarily susceptible, would
go out of his way to deceive. She was still turning this mystery
over in her mind, when her visitor spoke.
"Well, gimme th' rest of th' dope," said Miss Trimble.
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