"Miss--Omar--I wonder if it would be Miss Omar?"

You bet I didn't take time to see who it was talking before I
answered. Of course I was Miss Omar. I was Miss Anybody that had
a right to wear skirts and be inside those blessed gates.

"Ah--h! I fancied you might be. I've been expecting you."

It was a lazy, low voice with a laugh in it, and it came from a
wheeled chair, where a young man lay. Sallow he was and slim and
long, and helpless--you could see that by his white hanging
hands. But his voice--it was what a woman's voice would be if she
were a man. It made you perk up and pretend to be somewhere near
its level. It fitted his soft, black clothes and his fine, clean
face. It meant silks and velvets and--

Oh, all right, Tommy Dorgan, if you're going to get jealous of a
voice!

"Excuse me, Mr. Latimer." The cop came in as he spoke, Moriway
following; the rest of the hounds hung about. "There's a
thieving bell-boy from the hotel that's somewhere in your
grounds. Can I come in and get him?"

"In here, Sergeant? Aren't you mistaken?"

"No; Mr. Moriway here saw him jump the gate not five minutes
since."

"Strange, and I here all the time! I may have dozed of, though.