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Oppenheim, E. Phillips (Edward Phillips), 1866-1946

"The Profiteers"

The seconds sped by.
Then he took a quick step backwards, and they both stared at the door.
It was closed now, but the slam of it a moment before had sounded like
a pistol shot.
"Who was that?" she asked in a terrified whisper.
"That idiot of a boy with the key, I expect," he replied. "Wait, dear."
He hurried outside, through the little hall and into the corridor. There
was no one in sight, not even the sound of footsteps to be heard. He
listened for a moment and then returned.
"Who was it?" she repeated.
"Nobody!"
"But some one must have looked in--have seen us!"
"It may have been the outside door," he suggested.
She shook her head.
"The door was closed. I closed it behind me."
"You mustn't worry, dear," he insisted. "In all probability some one did
look into the room by mistake, but it is very doubtful whether they would
know who we were. It may have been Sparks, my man, or the night valet,
seeing a light here. Remember what I told you a few minutes ago--there is
no trouble now which shall come near you."
She smiled, already reassured.
"Of course, I am rather absurd," she said, "but then look at me! It
is past one o'clock, and here am I in your rooms, with that terrible
dressing case on the table, and without a hat, and still looking, I
am afraid," she concluded, with a final glance into the glass, "a
little tumbled.


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