"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 153 - Murder For Sale" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

There was no time to correct that error.
A glimmering revolver had poked through the space at the door. Its muzzle
was straight for Harry's heart. A slim, white finger was tightening on the gun
trigger!
Something--Harry didn't know what--caused The Shadow's agent to let his
fingers loosen. Harry's gun flipped from his grasp; by the time it thudded the
floor, his arms were half raised. That sudden surrender halted the trigger
finger at the doorway. By the briefest of margins, Harry had stayed his own
execution.
The door swung open. It was then that Harry realized why he had acted as
he did. His glimpse of the gun, of the hand with it, had instinctively told
him that he was not menaced by a murderous adversary. The revolver was small;
so was the hand.
Harry's foe was a girl.

SHE stepped into the living room, and Harry forgot his predicament when
he saw her. Seldom had he seen a young woman of such exquisite appearance.
A brunette, her hair seemed ebony against the ivory hue of her face. Her
features were perfect in their oval mold; her eyes, sparkling in their
blackness, had long, droopy lashes that gave her a languid gaze more suited to
romance than hostility.
Those eyes, however, showed no love for Harry.
Calmly, Harry waited. He didn't have to guess where the girl had come
from. She was beautifully gowned in a golden lame frock, which was
unquestionably the latest of Parisian creations. Her sandals were adorned with
sequins, to match her gown; and from his recollection of the throng in the
lobby, Harry knew that she was one of the many guests who had come to the
ball.
Bare-armed, her shoulders visible above the low-necked gown, the girl
appeared slender, almost frail, as she approached. Again, the snap of her dark
eyes reminded Harry that it would be dangerous to underestimate her
determination. The girl had questions to ask, and she expected rapid answers.
The first question came in a low, tense alto, that lacked any semblance
of a quaver:
"What do you know about Louis Rulland?"
"Nothing," replied Harry, promptly, "except that he was killed
yesterday."
"You claimed to be a friend of his," declared the girl. "Were you?"
"No," returned Harry. "But I told persons that I was."
 "Why?"
"To learn something about him."
"Because?"
The single-worded question was sharp. In that moment, Harry made an
instant decision in favor of the truth.
"Because I believe," he declared, "that Louis Rulland was murdered!"
It was a long chance, that answer, and Harry knew it. Some one of social
standing had paid for Rulland's death, and it was possible that even so
beautiful a girl could have been concerned in the case. But Harry was
following the same hunch that he had used when he flung away his gun.
The sparkle of the dark eyes was what guided him. Somehow, they carried a