CHAPTER NINEGray light filtered through the dirty panes of the second-floor window. Arthur Chesbro woke slowly, aching in every bone. When he opened his eyes stickily and peered across the grimy little room he could not at first believe what he saw.
“Polly!” he choked, amazement and outrage blended. His wife, apparently unclothed, was snuggled close to old Harry Starkman, under a single blanket.
She looked up, smiling. “Hush,” she said. “I finally got him to sleep. His chest sounds terrible and he has a fever, but if he sleeps he can’t be too bad—for now.”
She got up gracefully, managing to swirl the blanket around her without showing, Chesbro hoped, too much. Then he noted that the youngster from the hotel was gawking. He cleared his throat loudly and the kid looked away.
Mrs. Goudeke
