Free The House without the Door by Elizabeth Daly

you one of those rooms on the back terrace; then you can do a little night watching under Mrs. Gregson's window. You can sleep late in the mornings; that ought to suit you."
    "If I'm to hang around windows at night, you'd better make an arrangement with Tully. She'd have the skin off my back."
    "She won't know anything about it. I wish you'd co operate."
    "Who's to know she's up there? Colby won't tell."
    "You do what I ask you to. Anyhow, you'll get some decent food for a change."
    Harold frowned. He would not be persuaded to eat with the family because he preferred to absorb strange nourishment at counters, in the company of the drifting population. Seeing his gloom, Gamadge said casually: "You'd better take my dressing-case."
    This magnificent object had been a wedding present from Clara's aunt; Gamadge had faithfully lugged it about with him on their honeymoon, but had never opened it; and it was an object of admiration and respect to Harold, who could often be seen admiring it in its seclusion on a cupboard shelf. He dimly smiled. "I'll have to put my initials over yours," he said. "It will take me quite a while."
    "Don't forget that you're Thompson now. You'd better do some shopping tomorrow; take Clara with you, for goodness' sake. She'll know the kind of shirts to get—I don't want you startling the patients up there. Early, now; you'll have to take a morning train to Five Acres."
    "Nice long day you're planning for us."
    "I'll want a report from you every day; and you won't have to use code, because they have a telephone booth, and the patients can't switch in. I don't care to hear any complaints from the firm; I fully expect to be out and about half the night myself."
    He went into the hall and got Benton Locke's boarding-house on the telephone. A foreign voice gabbled at him, and after a pause a weary masculine one asked who was talking.
    "Henry Gamadge, I'm a document man—examine manuscripts, that kind of thing. Now and then I do a little private investigating; criminology, you know. Give you references, if you like."
    The voice asked: "What are you calling me up about?"
    "I'm a little worried about a Mrs. Stoner—Mrs. Minnie Stoner."
    The voice asked, after a pause during which Harold winked at Clara: "What about her?"
    "Can't talk over the telephone. I thought I might consult you this evening after dinner, if you can give me half an hour."
    After another pause Locke's voice came over the wire, no longer in a drawl, but hard and sharp: "Who are you investigating for?"
    "Explain when I see you."
    "I'd like the explanation now." The voice added: "I'm too busy to waste time."
    "I have been consulted by a Mrs. Greer."
    Locke coughed. Then he said: "About Minnie Stoner?"
    "Not specifically."
    "I'm dog-tired; been working all day, and I'm giving a lesson tonight."
    "I strongly advise you to discuss the situation with me, and as soon as possible."
    "I don't know what Minnie Stoner—can't imagine what it's all about. I go out to meals; I can't be here until eight-thirty."
    "Ha1f-past eight will suit me very well."
    "I can't give you more than half an hour. I'm working on some choreography, and if I put off this lesson I'll be up all night."
    "Half an hour ought to do."
    "If you hadn't mentioned Minnie Stoner I shouldn't have seen you at all. What's this party—Greer—investigating, for Heaven's sake?"
    "I'll tell you when I see you."
    Gamadge came back into the library. "Mr. Locke is very uppish," he said.
    "What's he uppish for?" Harold was gathering up the last of the Bendow correspondence, playfully assisted by Martin the cat.
    "He's a serious dancer."

CHAPTER SIX
Serious Dancer
    B ENTON LOCKE LIVED NOT FAR south of Mrs. Gregson's apartment, but his street ran between elevated railways and had long given up the struggle against shabbiness. Nor had his boarding-house atmosphere. A coat of fresh paint had lately been applied to its vestibule and double front door, but its high porch was grimy. A