"I beg your pardon," said Susan, "but would you mind telling me
where--" she had forgotten the address, fumbled in her bosom for
the cards, showed him Blynn's card--"how I can get to this?"
The policeman nodded as he read the address. "Keep on this way,
lady"--he pointed his baton south--"until you've passed four
streets. At the fifth street turn east. Go one--two--three--
four--five streets east. Understand?"
"Yes, thank you," said the girl with the politeness of deep gratitude.
"You'll be at Vine. You'll see the name on the street lamp.
Blynn's on the southwest corner. Think you can find it?"
"I'm sure I can."
"I'm going that way," continued the policeman.
"But you'd better walk ahead. If you walked with me, they'd
think you was pinched--and we'd have a crowd after us." And he
laughed with much shaking of his fat, tightly belted body.
Susan contrived to force a smile, though the suggestion of such
a disgraceful scene made her shudder. "Thank you so much. I'm
sure I'll find it." And she hastened on, eager to put distance
between herself and that awkward company.
"Don't mention it, lady," the policeman called after her, tapping
his baton on the rim of his helmet, as a mark of elegant courtesy.
She was not at ease until, looking back, she no longer saw the
bluecoat for the intervening crowds. After several slight
mistakes in the way, she descried ahead of her a large sign
painted on the wall of a three-story brick building:
MAURICE BLYNN, THEATRICAL AGENT
ALL KINDS OF TALENT PLACED AND SUPPLIED
After some investigation she discovered back of the saloon which
occupied the street floor a grimy and uneven wooden staircase
leading to the upper stories.
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