Without a word to Mrs. Miles he looked closely at the
top of the dressing-table and into the small wastebasket that stood
beside it.
"You--you can see that I cold-creamed my face before I put on fresh
powder and--and rouged," Flora Miles pointed out, with an obvious effort
at offended dignity. "After I came back, while you were making those
poor girls play the hand over again, I went through the same
motions--because you told all of us to behave exactly as we had done
before--"
"I--see," Dundee agreed.
Pretty clever, in spite of being almost frightened to death, Dundee said
to himself. But he had been just a shade cleverer than she, for he had
been in this room ahead of her, and there had been no balls of greasy
face tissue in the wastebasket then!
He was passing out of the room, offering his arm to Karen, when one of
his underlined notes thrust itself upon his memory:
"May I see your bridge tally, please, Mrs. Miles?"
"My--bridge tally!" she echoed blankly. "Why--it must be on the table
where I was playing--"
"It is not," Dundee assured her quietly. "Perhaps it is in your
handbag?" and he glanced at the rather large raffia bag that lay on the
table.
She snatched it up, slightly averting her body as she looked hastily
through its contents.
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