192 Her skirt had ridden almost to her hips. "He called me a wanton, Hoddy. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. "A bad girl?" She put the question as she would have put any question—leveleyed and level-toned. Her figure was, in some measure, hidden by a large scarf, and a deep hood drawn over the head contributed to her disguise; still it was evident, from her lofty bearing, that she had nothing in common, except an interest in their proceedings, with the crew by whom she was surrounded. The air was pungent and leaden. No need to do such things. “If you think it worth while,” she answered doubtfully. She was dropped off at 2:30 at Whitefield Park, a huge extravagantly lit field in the new part of town. In vain did the woollendraper offer to set him free if he would restore the stolen article, or give up his associate, to whom it was supposed he might have handed it.
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