THE HOUSE OF
INTRIGUE
CHAPTER ONE
BEFORE the tent-flap of every woman's soul, I think, sleeps a wolf-hound that answers to the name of Instinct. And Instinct stood up and showed the white of an eye as Big Ben Locke crossed over to the office door and swung it shut.
"Baddie," he said, as he sank back in his creaking swivel chair, "I want to talk to you. I've got to talk to you."
"About what?" I asked, wondering as to the origin of this newborn need of intimacy.
"About us!" he declared, as he sat there blinking down at his desk-top, apparently digesting that unlooked-for audacity of bracketing his august self with one of his younger operatives. And low was the growl from that four-footed shadow standing on guard over the timorous souls of women. For life had long since taught me to beware the man of
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