" I throws over my shoulder at her.

Her straight eyebrows kind of humps in the middle--that's all.

"Did you say anything?" I goes on.

"No," says she. If she'd smiled sort of faint, or even glared stern at
us, it wouldn't have been so bad. But she just presses her lips
together--thin, narrow-gage lips, they was--and goes on givin' us that
distant, unconcerned look.

Meanwhile Swifty, with his face bent towards the floor, ain't gettin'
any view at all, and is only guessin' what's happenin'. He squirms
impatient.

"Say, Shorty," he grumbles, "I got a few bones in me neck, remember.
Break, can't you?"

And as I loosens my hold he straightens up, only to get the full benefit
of that placid, ladylike lookover.

"Ahr-r-r chee!" says he, glancin' disgusted at me. Then he starts
gettin' rosy in the ears, like he always does when there's fluffs
around, and after one more hasty look he bolts back into the gym.

The strange lady watches this move like she has everything else, only
she shrugs her shoulders a bit. What she meant by that I couldn't make
out. I was gettin' to the point where I didn't care so much, either.

"Well, Ma'am?" says I.

"Poor fellow!" says she. "I am glad he escaped that brutal blow."

"Are you?" says I. "Well, don't waste too much sympathy on him; for I
was only demonstratin' how----"

"You might offer me a chair," she breaks in sort of casual.

"Why--er--sure!" says I, and before I knew it I was jumpin' to drag one
up.

She settles into it without even a nod of thanks.

"You see," I goes on, "he's my assistant, and I was tryin' to show him
how----"

"It's rather stuffy here," observes the lady. "Couldn't you open a
window?"

It's more an order than anything else; but I hops over and shoves the
sash wide open.

"That's too much," says she. "It causes a draft."

So I shuts it halfway. Then I gets her a glass of water. "Anything else
you'd like?" says I, tryin' to be sarcastic. "The mornin' paper, or----"

"Where is Mr. Steele?" she demands.

"Oh!" says I, gettin' a little light on the mystery. "J. Bayard, you
mean?"

"Of course," says she. "He was not at his hotel, and as this was the
other address I was given I expected to find him here."

"Huh!" says I. "Gave you this number, did he? Well, you see, this is my
Physical Culture Studio, and while he's apt to be here off and on, it
ain't his----"

"Just such a place as I might have anticipated finding Bayard in," says
she, gl