"I beg your pardon?" inquired Jimmie Dale, in polite surprise.
"I—I locked the door—I'm sure I did," she said, more to herself than to Jimmie Dale, and hurried across the floor to the door as she spoke.
Jimmie Dale, still politely curious, turned to watch her.
For a moment bewilderment and a puzzled look were in her face—and then a sort of surprised relief.
"I must have turned the key in the lock without shutting the door tight," she explained, "for I knew I turned the key."
Jimmie Dale bent forward to examine the lock—and nodded.
"Yes," he agreed, with a smile. "I should say so." Then, gravely courteous: "I'm sorry to have intruded."
"It is nothing," she answered; and, evidently anxious to be rid of him, moved quickly around behind the counter. "What kind of cigarettes do you want?"
"Egyptians—any kind," said Jimmie Dale, laying a bill on the counter.
He pocketed the cigarettes and his change, and turned to the door.
"Good-evening," he said pleasantly—and went out.
Jimmie Dale smiled a little curiously, a little tolerantly. As he started along the street, he heard the door of the little shop close with a sort of supercareful bang, the key turned, and the latch rattle to try the door—the little old lady was bent on making no mistake a second time!
And then the smile left Jimmie Dale's lips, his face grew strained and serious, and he broke into a run down the block to Sixth Avenue. Here he paused for an instant—there was the elevated, the surface cars—which would be the quicker? He looked up the avenue. There was no train coming; the nearest surface car was blocks away. He bit his lips in vexation—and then with a jump he was across the street and hailing a passing taxicab that his eyes had just lighted on.
"Got a fare?" called Jimmie Dale.
