"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 291 - Teardrops of Buddha" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

key in the lock, had turned to hide somewhere. At least that was Ted's first
impression. Then the girl smiled.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she exclaimed. Then, her eyes large and frank with
inquiry: "You're Mr. Grenshaw?"
Ted nodded slowly, so the girl wouldn't grasp the fact that he had
hesitated.
"I knocked, but no one answered," the girl continued. "So I came in,
thinking I could leave these tickets on the writing desk." Fumbling, the girl
brought a small envelope from her hand-bag. "They're for the Masked Ball down
in the Village. A friend of yours sent them."
The girl stepped back into the lights of the room. She changed the
subject
with a quick gesture.
"When I saw the room," she added, "I was afraid you might blame me. So I
just thought I'd leave -"
Ted had forgotten the room because of the girl. He found that he liked
blondes, though he hadn't known it. This one was different, because of her
eyes. Like most blondes, and like Ted himself, she had blue eyes. Probably it
was the way blondes stared that had caused Ted's prejudice against them. Blue
eyes didn't have the soulful touch that tapped Ted's responsive chord. They
needed something else - like the frankness of Ted's own gaze - and this girl's
eyes had it.
"About the room." Still gesturing, the girl was watching Ted. "It was
like
this when I found it. Who disturbed it, I don't know! Only they - well, I'd
say
they -"
"I'd say they did a good job," supplied Ted coolly, as he studied the
room
for the first time. The luggage that Grenshaw had mentioned was plentiful, and
its contents strewn everywhere. "Yes," added Ted, "a very good job."
Shirts, suits, socks and shoes weren't all that had been tossed around.
Papers were flung all over the floor; books were lying about wide open, with
no
regard for their expensive bindings. Nor had they stopped with Grenshaw's
belongings; cushions were missing from chairs; drawers had been yanked from
bureaus; sheets, blankets, pillows ripped off the bed where they belonged.
Ted looked at the girl, who had stepped between him and the door. She
placed the little ticket envelope in his hand, watching him with those same
frank eyes. With the light still on her face, Ted was liking it still more. It
was a round face, with the slightly saucy upturn of the nose discounted by the
earnest lips above the firm chin.
"Honestly, Mr. Grenshaw -"
"Honestly, I'm not Mr. Grenshaw," interposed Ted, deciding that one dash
of truth might lead to more. "I'm Ted Trent, a friend of his. And your name is
-"
Ted put a questioning rise to his tone in hope it would bring a
spontaneous result. It did, though not the sort he expected. Clutching Ted's
arm suddenly, the girl pointed past him and exclaimed:
"Look out, behind you, Mr. Trent!"