Larry opened the door and entered. “Hello, Isaac. Where's grandmother?”
It is not a desirable trait in one connected with a pawnshop, that is also reputed to be a fence, to show surprise or curiosity. So Isaac's reply was confined to a few facts and brief direction.
Wondering, Larry mounted the stairway which opened from the confidential business room behind the pawnshop. It was common enough for his grandmother to rent out the third floor; but to a painter, and a crazy painter—that seemed strange. And yet more strange was it for her to be having dinner with the painter.
Larry knocked at the door. A big male voice within gave order:
“Be parlor-maid, Maggie, and see who's there.”
The door opened and Larry half entered. Then he stopped, and in surprise gazed at the flushed, gleaming Maggie, slender and supple in the folds of the Spanish shawl.
“Why, Maggie!” he exclaimed, holding out his hand.
“Larry!”
She was thrillingly confused by his surprised admiration. For a moment they stood gazing at each other, holding hands. The clothes given him on leaving prison were of course atrocious, but in all else he measured up to her dreams: lithe, well-built, handsome, a laugh ready on his lips, and the very devil of daring in his smiling, gray-blue eyes.
“How you have grown up, Maggie!” he said, still amazed.
“That's all I've had to do for two years,” she returned.
“Come on in, Larry,” said the Duchess.
Larry shut the door, bowed with light grace as he had to pass in front of Maggie, and crossed to the Duchess.
“Hello, grandmother,” he said as though he had last seen her the day before. He held out his hand, the left one, and she took it in a mummified claw. In all his life he had never kissed his grandmother, nor did he remember ever having been kissed by her.
“Glad you're back, Larry.” She dropped his hand. “The man's name is Hunt.”
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