George, Tete-Beche

Front matter

GEORGE, TETE-BECHE

by H. Bedford-Jones

Author of “Outside the Law,” “Malay Gold,” etc.

II

AS HANSON accompanied his friend along the long reaches of the arcade, which had more than one odd turning and cross-passage, he was thinking less of the philately than of pearls.

It was only a few months previously that the Goober case had broken into the news—one of the countless affairs going to make wealthy Americans a byword in careful Europe. Mrs. Goober, widow of a motor manufacturer, had lost in a taxicab a string of pearls worth thirty thousand dollars—or so she reported to the police, tearfully. How it was lost, she could not say. It remained lost, and Mrs. Goober went home again, a sadder and wiser lady.

George Hanson, in common with every other newspaper man in Paris, knew the “inside” of the story, which powerful and wealthy friends of the lady had suppressed with golden hands. Such suppression is nothing new to Paris, where newspapers exist for political and financial reasons, not for news. There might have been an Argentine dancer in the taxicab, or a military gentleman might have been involved in the affair; the pearls, even, might have been quietly recovered. Mrs. Goober had stirred up a hornet's nest which buzzed far from her ken, poor woman! However, it was all over with and forgotten now—except for MacAllister, who never forgot or overlooked anything.

“You interested in the Goober case?” asked Hanson suddenly.

“Nope,” came the light-hearted response. “Only I know where the pearls are.”

“Where?”

“Jeanne's wearing them—maybe thinks they're fake.” Mac chuckled softly. “They were let go, you know, to hush the thing up. How they dropped into her pretty hands, is what I'd like to know. Just for curiosity! Might lead to something, too—you can't tell.”

“Oh! They were let go, eh?”

Mac nodded. “Yep, the affair raised so much hell it scared all hands. Well, there we are ahead. Turn left.”

Hanson turned into a dark little passage leading to a side street, and occupied by dark shops where furniture was manufactured for antique sales to tourists. Then, suddenly, he found a stamp emporium ahead—a tiny place, barely large enough to hold a pair of tables, with only the sheets of stamps in the windows to announce its wares. Mac opened the door and spoke.

“Morning, miss! I told you I'd bring a friend of mine along. Here he is.”

After the open street, the place was gloomy, and Hanson well knew the value of this gloom, and the greater value of the electric lights—if this dealer were dishonest.

“Mr. Hanson's a friend of mine, Miss Lasalle, can't talk much French, and will be tickled to death to hear real language again.”

Too pretty for such surroundings, thought Hanson, as he shook hands with the girl. Alive with an intense vivacity, and her absence of all artificiality was so rare in Paris as to be noticed instantly.

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Hanson, especially if it means business ahead,” she exclaimed. Just as Hanson had not missed his cue from Mac, he now did not miss the slight hint perhaps meant to discourage any personalities.

“To hear real home talk is some treat,” he said. “Mac was telling me you had some tete-beche Georges here, so I came along.”

“You're interested in English, then?” she inquired,

Hanson nodded. “Yes, and any such a pair is news to me, Miss Lasalle.”

She smiled and turned to a large safe in one corner, whose door stood open. With a movement she switched on electric lights. The safe was revealed as filled with red-backed stamp albums, and from a small compartment she brought out a classeur or small pocket-book.

This she brought to one of the tables. Hanson seated himself, while Mac remained on his feet, sharp eyes intent on what passed. Taking the opened classeur handed him by the young woman, Hanson took from the table a pair of tweezers and removed from the files of the little book a pair of ordinary three-halfpenny stamps—ordinary in themselves, yet set in reverse to each other.

“Have you a glass?” he asked.

Silently, she handed him a magnifying glass. He held up the stamps to the light, laid them on his sleeve and regarded them, then gave them a careful examination with the glass.

“This year's watermark,” he observed. Mac came up behind him and chuckled.

“Tell him the story,” he said to the girl. Then, to Hanson, “We got pretty well acquainted over those stamps, George. She knows all about 'em, and it's gospel.”

“There is a history, yes,” said Jeanne Lasalle. “You see, they are careful about this sort of thing in England. When the reversal was discovered, all the sheets printed from the block were ordered destroyed—to preserve any of them amounted to a criminal offence. One of the engravers saved a sheet—to be exact, he stole it. There were, I believe, about forty such pairs in the sheet. There'll never be any more, for the theft was discovered.”

“And he's in jail?” asked Hanson.

She shook her head, and Hanson looked at the glints of gold in her brown hair.

“No, he's in France—a very clever engraver. He can't go back to England now.”

“I suppose not,” said Hanson dryly. “But this is news to me, Miss Lasalle! And I thought I was pretty well up on the English issues. How long ago did all this happen?”

“Not very long ago. Of course, the pairs are not yet catalogued. They'll be listed next year, however, for most of them have been disposed of, and they are absolutely authentic. In five years they'll be held at enormous prices.”

Hanson could readily understand this. He saw that by good fortune he was in the presence of one of those rare chances which come to few collectors, of which all collectors dream. And when Mac had vouched for the girl's story, he knew it could be accepted as true. Within a few years such a pair of stamps as this would be worth anywhere from a hundred to five hundred dollars, perhaps double such a sum.

He determined instantly to buy at whatever price was asked.

“They're for sale?”

She nodded, and Mac chuckled again.

“If you saw Gurtzel, George, you wouldn't have asked. He'd sell his grandmother if she had the right perforation and watermark. He's interested in more than stamps, too.”

The girl glanced up, half in annoyance, half in challenging inquiry. “Indeed?”

“Sure,” explained the detective. “In pearls, you know. He has an interest in that business, hasn't he? Pearls like yours.”

“Oh! Yes, I think he is connected with some artificial pearl business, but I really know little of his private affairs,” said the girl coldly.

Her fingers toyed with the necklace she was wearing, and Hanson glanced at it. Scarce a woman in Paris but had just such a necklace—at first sight.

“Well, about these stamps,” said Hanson. “You have another pair here, I see. The price?”

“A thousand francs each.”

Hanson whistled. “I'll take one pair now,” he said. “Will you hold the other for me until tomorrow, late in the afternoon.”

The girl hesitated. “Why—I'd have to ask—Oh, theres Mr. Kurtzel now! I'll ask him. He speaks a little English.”

The door opened, to admit a rather small, middle-aged, bearded man.

“Bonchour, bonchour,” he exclaimed, and passed to one corner to hang up hat and coat. The accent apprised Hanson instantly that he was dealing with a man who might by a Slav, but was more probably a Teuton. Kurtzel came to the table, and peered down as Miss Lasalle proffered Hanson's request. Then he looked at Mac, and nodded, holding out his hand in the cheerful French fashion.

“Tomorrow's Thursday,” put in Mac significantly. “Perhaps M. Kurtzel will be gone to the bourse.”

“Yes,” said Kurtzel in hesitating English. “I sometimes go.”

“It's like this,” said Hanson, playing the role Mac had tacitly assigned him. “These pairs are rare, and I'll take three if you can get me another. But I'll not have enough money until tomorrow. I have a friend who'd like this other one, I know2”

“Sure, sure,” said Kurtzel, rubbing his hands. “Maybe I find one at ze bourse—if, what you call2”

“Speak French,” said Hanson. “I understand it if I don't speak it well.”

“Good,” said Kurtzel, looking down. His face was stubby, ugly, his eyes gleaming with lights Hanson did not care for. “I will see a friend tomorrow, and think I can get another pair. Shall we meet there?”

“Yes,” and Hanson. nodded. “I'll be around there about three. If I get the money I expect, I'll take the other pair from you, then come back here and pick up this second one—but the shop will be closed!”

“No,” spoke up the girl. “I'll be here, Mr. Hanson.”

As she spoke, she looked down at the table and then up again. Hanson fancied a certain implication, a thing not to be put in words; he determined to return here on the morrow.

“Very well,” he said, and produced a thousand franc note. “I'll pay for this pair now, and leave it here until tomorrow, if I may—get them all at one crack.”

He rose and handed the note to Kurtzel, then, smiling, spoke in French which he purposely made halting.

“I hear you are interested in artificial pearls.”

The man started visibly. The hand holding the note remained aloft, transfixed. The cunning eyes lifted and widened on the gaze of Hanson, almost wonderingly. On the instant, Hanson knew that with these idle words he had all unawares plumbed some far depths.

“What you mean?” demanded Kurtzel.

“Why, nothing!” The American laughed. “I have one or two friends in the pearl business myself over here—Murphy, Barnett and others.”

Kurtzel nodded, his face cleared, and his smile was unmistakably one of relief.

“Oh! Yes, I am in ze business a leetle, a leetle,” he said.

“Well, come along,' exclaimed Mac with an impatient air. “We'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Kurtzel—good day!”

When the usual adieux were said, and Hanson had met with a business-like smile from Miss Lasalle, the two left the shop. When they were a little way down the passage, Hanson spoke.

“I hear you're interested in artificial pearls.”

Mae grunted. “You sure hit something there—I'm not sure what! And what sort of a game are you playing by leaving the stamps there? That rascal sells nothing but counterfeit stamps and false surcharges!”

“He can't switch pairs on me—and the girl won't. I'll buy all those pairs I can get, to the bottom of my pile! They're not counterfeit.”

“No,” said Mac. “Did you notice the pearls?”

“Not particularly. They all look alike to me. But did I play your game right?”

“Right enough,” said Mac, rubbing his chin. “Hm! You struck something in that phrase you used—don't forget it!”

“Are you after the girl?” demanded Hanson bluntly. “Come across!”

“No, I'm not,” declared the detective. “You couldn't imagine a safer place for the Goober necklace than around her neck, and her thinking it artificial, until it's safe to break it up and get rid of it. But it's not my funeral, unless I can stumble on to something good. Only the insurance people are interested in those pearls. I'm hoping I may get led on to something.”

“All right, I'll lead you on to a drink right now,” said Hanson, chuckling.

He was not sure why he was so relieved at Mac's declaration.

III

IT'S a great show,” said MacAllister, interested. “And always new. How long has it been going on?”

“For the past sixty years,” returned Hanson, “Outside of the curb jewel market, here's the finest collection of honest men, rascals, freaks and petty thieves in Paris. A lot of Russian and Armenian refugees, too; the Armenians all turn to stamps here, instead of rugs, I have some pretty decent friends here, too.”

Under the spreading trees of the Rond Point des Champs Elysees, beside the puppet-shows and the Theater Marigny, now in course of rebuilding, lay the famous open air bourse of stamps—here met the collectors every holiday in the year, rain or shine, hot or cold. Out of chairs and planks were made tiny tables and stands, and around these regular merchants eddied the crowd in hundreds. As Hanson said, it was the queerest crowd to be found in Paris, and numbered few or no tourists.

Many irregular merchants, who desired to pay no tax for a regular stand, circulated in the crowd, proffering wares with furtive air. Little knots collected wherever a buyer found something of interest, there was no privacy, everyone was curious with the cheerfully amiable air of your Parisian, and good-humor was prevalent. A diplomat, his button-hole threaded with ribbons of decorations, might be seen cheek by jowl with some nondescript gutter-rat. Many Levantines were in evidence, and Russians and Slavs.

The two friends came to a pause before the stand of a yellow-whiskered gentleman whose eyes held a curious glint. Among his displayed wares, Hanson spotted a set of English stamps, one of which was a rare variety. He picked it out and demanded the price.

The yellow-whiskered one objected violently. Monsieur could have the whole set, at a price three times its value, but not that one stamp alone. When Hanson argued the matter, the merchant calmly pocketed the whole lot and began to talk politics with a bland air. Indignant, Hanson drew the grinning Mac away.

“Something queer,” Hanson said. “I'll ask Aramian about it—he's an Armenian lawyer from Constantinople. There he is, to the left.”

The Armenian in question, a man of no little culture and education, removed his hat and shook hands, courteously acknowledging the introduction to Mac. He had observed their encounter with the yellow whiskers, and chuckled over it.

“Yes, I know him,” he told Hanson. “He is a famous surgeon, m'sieu; during the war he was many times decorated, but he was shell-shocked and now is a trifle mad. He is not to be taken seriously, m'sieu.”

“So I perceive,” said Hanson dryly. “Au revoir, m'sieu.”

They sauntered on amid the crowd, refusing all proffered bargains, Hanson giving his companion bits of gossip or information about this or that dealer, and after a time Hanson caught a glimpse of Kurtzel.

“There's my bird, Mac,” he exclaimed. “I'm going to nail the odd pair, if he has them, then go keep an appointment. Later on I'll get around to his shop and pick up the other two pairs.'

Mac nodded. “I'll stick around here for a while, I think. May pick up a stamp or two—or other things. No telling.”

Kurtzel was approaching, worming his way through the crowd, but did not perceive them until Hanson tapped him on the shoulder. He whirled swiftly, then nodded in recognition.

“Ah! I have them, yes; and two other pairs, which I am holding for another customer.”

Hanson noted that the dealer's English had improved since the previous day, but he did not comment on the fact. Kurtzel produced a small pocket classeur and opened it to disclose three pairs of the English stamp, all of the rare variety. He indicated one of the three and handed the classeur to Hanson, who noted the one indicated had a damaged perforation.

Holding up the little book before him as though examining the stamp against the light for thinning, Hanson unobtrusively and swiftly, with deft thumb, removed another of the pairs and shoved the one indicated into its place. Then, taking out the pair he had removed, he pocketed it and returned the classeur to Kurtzel, who did not observe the substitution. With it Hanson passed over a thousand-franc note, which he had previously made ready.

“Merci, m'sieu,” he said casually, and turned away. Kurtzel pocketed the little book and the note, lifted his hat, and passed on. Mac smiled grimly at Hanson.

“You worked it like a charm, George! Was he passing off a damaged one on you?”

“Yes. And I think I'll hop right back to the shop and get my other two pairs before he finds out I did not fall for his crooked work. Hello! This is signed, too.”

He had taken out the pair to place it in an envelope. On the back, he noticed the tiny, violet-inked impression or seal which constitutes a Parisian dealer's guarantee of his wares, always affixed to any stamp of price. It was too small for deciphering without a glass, and at the moment Hanson paid no attention to it, beyond a mental ironic query as to the value of any guarantee from Kurtzel.

“Well, I'm off,” he said. “Where'll we meet, Mac?”

“At the Bodega on the Rue de Rivoli, if you can stand the tourist quarter,” responded Mac. “Any time you say. The Madeira there is first-rate.”

“Four-thirty, then.”

“Good enough. Give the young lady my love if you see her!”

Mac watched Hanson stride off, then turned his phlegmatic attention to matters closer at hand. Walking up the Avenue Gabriel side of the bourse until he was past the thickest of the crowd, he found a place vacant on one of the benches from the sidewalk, and pre-empted it. From this vantage point he could watch comfortably and smoke, and enjoy life.

Mac was composed in large portion of cold-rolled steel. He liked George Hanson very much, and was entirely willing to work with him or for him; but if Hanson were blunderer enough to get in the way, Mac would ruthlessly sideswipe him.

Just now, the detective was working to no definite end. He was following a hunch, a sixth sense warning him he was sniffing at the edge of something big. This hunch had brought him to Kurtzel's shop more than once, yet until the previous day he had really chanced on nothing to back it up. To Mac, all the world was divided into two parts—crooks and non-crooks. If Jeanne Lasalle was a crook, she would find no mercy in him, but Mac had not yet made up his mind about the girl.

Now he caught sight of Kurtzel, moving apart from the crowd and talking earnestly with a tall, dark man wearing a wide-brimmed black hat, a man as distinctly not a Parisian as Mac himself. Both men were gesturing, and to Mac these gestures conveyed a good deal. He gathered that Kurtzel was about to depart, and wished the other man to remain here; at length Kurtzel glanced at his watch, shook hands hurriedly with the dark man, and slipped away. At the corner, Mac saw him hail a prowling taxi.

The detective rose and followed the dark man, who had plunged into the crowd. He found himself interested in this saturnine, almost sinister, individual.

This open air stamp bourse had its own peculiarities. Three out of every four people, whether buyer or seller, were known by name or sight to each other; if a client came here three times, he found himself recognized and greeted, remembered. The same faces were seen here week after week, yet everyone was here with a definite purpose, from the small boy who came to seek certain two-sou stamps he might lack, to the gray-haired financier willing to pay his thousands for rare specimens. There were also plenty of hawks seeking to victimize both small boy and gray-haired specialist.

Knowing these things, Mac found that the dark man did not quite fit in. He appeared to seek, yet no one exchanged greetings with him. He was not here for stamps, since he brushed aside with obvious impatience all offered books, yet he constantly kept in the thick of the throng, kept peering into faces. He was expecting someone or something.

Mac drew closer to him, lighted a cigar, and bided his time. At length, in a twist of the eddying throng, he came face to face with the dark man. Their eyes met.

“I hear you're interested in artificial pearls,” said Mac, not trying to speak French.

Instantly the dark eyes lighted up, the hand of the saturnine man came to Mac's arm.

“What's that?” he responded in English. “Hamburg?”

Mac nodded silently, and flashed a look around as though to warn of caution. The game was a blind one, but Mac was a perfect player. The grip of the long fingers tightened upon his arm.

“You know the Café Mazarin on the grand boulevard?”

Mac nodded, his eyes steadily meeting those darkly blazing eyes of the other man.

“Very well. Eight tonight at the Mazarin? Left hand side as you enter—a corner table outside near the windshield?”

“Right,” said Mac, shifting his cigar. “I'll be there.”

The other nodded and slipped away. Mac watched him worm out of the crowd and then head at a rapid pace past the puppet-shows toward the Champs Elysees. Mac took the cigar from his mouth, exhaled slowly, and smiled a little.

“Hm! Looks like I'm getting hep at last,” he observed to himself. “I'll nab Nick Ignatieff anyway!”

IV

GEORGE HANSON paid off his taxi at the corner of the Rue Caumartin and walked up that narrow thoroughfare at a rapid pace. Presently he turned in at a narrow entrance, went through to a large courtyard, entered a door on the right, and found himself in the shop of an exporter of artificial pearls—an American whom he knew well.

“Hello, Bill,” he said. “I'm in a devil of a rush, and hope you can help me out. I want a necklace of graduated pearls—about the size of the famous Goobner necklace, if you recall it. I want a good one, though.”

The exporter laughed. “The best one in the world will only set you back twenty-five bucks, George. That is, unless you want to play tourist and think the quality depends on the price! Or, again, a diamond clasp2”

“Nix on the shiners,” said Hanson. “Give me the best quality—ah! That's the ticket!”

He gazed at the necklace handed him. “Just about a double for the Goober,” said the dealer. “In fact, I made it up at the time of that sensation for one of your fraternity who wanted a photo of the Goober necklace. It's not a replica, of course2”

“Trust me for the money, will you?”

“Sure thing.”

“All right. Thanks.”

Hanson hurried out, regained the boulevard, hailed a taxicab, and in half a minute was being whirled toward the shop of Kurtzel. He took the necklace from its tissue-paper wrapping and stuffed it loosely into his pocket, and relaxed over a cigarette.

“If I get the chance, I'll do it,” he reflected, as he stared out at the passing scene, oblivious. “There's still a five-thousand dollar reward posted for that necklace.”

Leaving his taxi at the Rue Drouot, he cut down to the “passage,” threaded its mazes, and in no long time was shaking hands with Jeanne Lasalle. It being Thursday and therefore a holiday, two schoolboys were investing in stamps, and Hanson waited at the other table, his eyes on the girl. At the enthusiastic chatter of the two boys, she lifted a smiling glance to him—a whimsical, sympathetic glance of amusement. Then, a moment later, the boys settled up and departed with an inclusive “Bonjour, m'sieu et 'dame!”

“You've come for the two tete-beche pairs, Mr, Hanson?” she inquired.

“Yes,” said Hanson. “May I ask whether you've been here long, Miss Lasalle?”

She had turned to the open safe and now paused, looking around.

“No. A few weeks—why?”

“To be frank, it's rather surprising to find anyone like you in the employ of such a man as Kurtzel.”

She shrugged slightly. “I'm earning my living,” she said. “My father was a collector, quite a famous one, and I know stamps pretty well. There are no personalities in business.”

“I differ with you there,” said Hanson quietly. She came back to the table with the classeur and set it before him, with the two pairs of stamps. “I met Kurtzel on the bourse, a little while ago, and got another pair from him. Not the one he wanted me to have, only he didn't know it. He tried to foist a damaged pair on me.”

“Yes,” she said with calm acceptance. “But what would you? The bourse is the bourse—it is a game of wits there, you know. When I first came here, we had a clear understanding, and I earn my money honestly.”

Hanson did not miss the implication in her words. He added the two pairs to the one already in his pocket, and then asked to see some colonials. As he had expected, most of the French Colonials offered him were patent forgeries. He did come upon a number of the rare four-penny Jamaicas, and promptly bought the lot at five francs each.

“I'm surprised those slipped past you,” he said, laughingly, when he had paid for them. “A sheet of them got loose in Paris—none of the dealers here distinguish between the brown and the brown-orange. I'll get two pounds apiece for these in London.”

She smiled. “I knew about them, but I didn't care to cheat the man I'm working for,” she said quietly. “Is there anything else I can show you?”

“Nothing,” said Hanson. “If the police drop on to those French Colonials and pay a call, what will happen to you?”

She met his eyes squarely. “Is that impertinence—or curiosity?”

Like most red-headed and normally cheerful young men, George Hanson was impulsive.

“Curiosity,” he said promptly. “I feel you're out of place here—why shouldn't I? I'm no tourist looking for diversion. I'm working in Paris, and so are you. I'm an American, and so are you, or I miss my guess. To show you how curious I am, will you let me look at those pearls you're wearing?”

For a long moment she studied him, her violet eyes appraising, steady, direct. Then, as Hanson smiled again, she gave him a quick nod and a laugh.

“No, I don't think you mean to be impertinent,” she observed, and her fingers went to the pearls at her throat. “When I first came here, Mr. Kurtzel gave me these. They're very good imitation pearls, aren't they? Rather he loaned them to me. He's a queer man in some ways, you know. He thinks a good deal depends on looks, and ordered me to wear these because I had no other jewelry2”

The necklace coiled into her hand and she passed it to Hanson. He held it up.

“Wonderfully like the real thing!” he declared. “Of course I'm no expert, but2”

Rising, he took the necklace to the door as though to examine it in more true light. For an instant his back was turned to her, then he came back to the table.

“Pretty baubles,” he said, and let the string of beads curl down into her hand, “Thank you. Do you know that the very finest imitation pearls are worth something like nine francs the inch? Then figure out what profit is made off tourists!”

“The tourists get what they're looking for, usually,” she answered, re-fastening the string about her throat. Hanson leaned forward.

“Do you know what I'm looking for, young lady? Not a flirtation, by a good deal. But I look for this joint to be investigated one of these days. Now, you probably know that over here a newspaper man has about a hundred thousand times as much pull as he has at home—real honest-to-gosh pull! If anything happens here and you need a friend, will you let me2”

The door opened and Kurtzel entered, breathing hard.

He stared at the two faces turned toward him, then recognized Hanson and flung up his hands in a swift gesture.

“Ah! I hoped to find you!” he exclaimed hurriedly. “There has been a terrible mistake—look, I show you2”

Hanson rose. Kurtzel fumbled in his pocket for his classeur. Then, abruptly, he seemed to freeze, become petrified. His eyes were fastened upon the girl's throat. Hanson smiled.

“I hear you're interested in artificial pearls,” he said, with a chuckle.

He was totally unprepared for what happened. He had thought to face down the dealer, bluff him if necessary, protect Jeanne Lasalle from his anger, perhaps get her out of the place here and now. Instead2

Like an uncoiled spring, Kurtzel lost his immobility. His outstretched arm thrust the rising girl back into her chair. He darted forward to the safe. Then he whirled, with a cry of wild rage, a pistol in his hand.

As he lifted the weapon, Hanson wakened from his amazed stupor and rushed. His hand knocked up the weapon, and the bursting report sent a bullet into the ceiling. Grappling with the cursing, raging Kurtzel, he frantically bent back the man's wrist, trying to force away his grip on the pistol; the blazing eyes before him were those of a madman.

Despite his small size, Kurtzel was no weakling, He fought in raging fury, hot oaths on his lips. There came a second report, and Hanson knew the bullet had burned his coat. The two men swayed, each putting forth every energy, and Kurtzel, getting one foot against the wall, thrust forward. Hanson twisted more powerfully on the captive wrist, and lashed out a jabbing blow to the mouth with his right.

A third explosion, this time muffled. Kurtzel staggered backward, then his knees gave way and he dropped in a huddled mass, still gripping the pistol.

For a long moment Hanson stood looking down, panting, unable to realize the truth. Then he bent over and touched Kurtzel's breast. It was still, motionless, red-smeared. Hanson rose and looked at the staring girl.

“I'm sorry,” he said quietly. “He forced it on me, of course. He's dead2”

Five seconds of silence, then the girl wakened.

“Quick—go!” she exclaimed. “No one heard—it's empty overhead.”

“Run, and leave you?” Hanson laughed shortly: “That would be nice, wouldn't it!”