CHAPTER ELEVENWrong Side of the Tracks
Susan put the outfit back into the drawer, and Gamadge helped her to close it. He was looking at the spangled, feathered, painted fans, when he heard his name. Turning, he saw Zelma Smyth peering at him over a crumpled, yellowing mass of furbelows. She was smiling like a conspirator.
“My dear child,” said Ames, coming up behind him, “I beg of you! You look like Miss Havisham.”
“They didn’t get repacked properly.”
“You try to do it,” said Georgette.
Ira was laughing. “I think they must have been dressed up in once or twice too often,” he said. “Perhaps we’d better get rid of the clothes, anyhow, Georgy.”
“You think anybody’d want the musty things? I’ll have Lefferts burn them.”
Ames had opened the rosewood desk; it was packed with big, square, s
