Mr. Bunn's fingers closed like a bunch of steel forceps on his partner's wrist.
"Miss Vanesterman, for a thousand pounds!" he said softly. "Can you beat her?"
"No," Fortworth admitted in a whisper, he couldn't. Certainly she was a beautiful, vivid, brilliant thing— probably not more than 20, dark, with a perfect profile, tallish, slender, graceful as a deer and beautifully befrocked. But, even to the brace of slightly shady psychologists and cash-hounds peering in at her, it was obvious that she was angry almost to the point of desperation.
"Why so cross?" breathed Mr. Bunn into the ear of his crouching partner. "Surely she's got everything in the world worth having? Nothing to be cross about! So pretty and all."
He moved along. 'She'll be going in a minute. Nothing more to see but the
