"I guess you didn't cruise with old Bud Griswold without learning a few of his lush-dip tricks!" she said with a shrug that was meant to be insulting.
"You needn't drag a dead man into this," I told her, and my voice shook a little as I said it.
"A dead man?" she echoed, staring at me with half closed eyes. Then she laughed again, remembering, I suppose, that I could never quite forget what had caused that death.
I could see that she was about to speak again, but she froze into sudden silence, arrested by the disturbing discovery that some one from the outside had plainly tried to open the door that led to the hall. I could see her green eyes fixed meditatively on the turning door-knob. But I didn't wait for more. I didn't wait to see if she unlocked that door, or if she got into the four-poster, or if she began to claw the tapestry from the walls. I retreated, when the way for retreat was still open. I slipped back into the bathroom, swung the door shut and locked it. Then I made for the next door, and repeated the operation.
When I got to the room done in yellow brocade, I crossed to the still open wall-safe, swung shut the door, and also the panel of carved mahogany that screened the metal safe-front.
