Miss Wonderly murmured, “Thank you,” softly as before and sat down on the edge

of the chair’s wooden seat.

 

Spade sank into his swivel-chair, made a quarter-turn to face her, smiled

politely. He smiled without separating his lips. All the v’s in his face grew

longer.

 

The tappity-tap-tap and the thin bell and muffled whir of Effie Perine’s

typewriting came through the closed door. Somewhere in a neighboring office a

power-driven machine vibrated dully. On Spade’s desk a limp cigarette smoldered

in a brass tray filled with the remains of limp cigarettes. Ragged grey flakes

of cigarette-ash dotted the yellow top of the desk and the green blotter and the

papers that were there. A buff-curtained window, eight or ten inches open, let

in from the court a current of air faintly scented with ammonia. The ashes on

the desk twitched and crawled in the current.

 

Miss Wonderly watched the grey flakes twitch and crawl. Her eyes were uneasy.

She sat on the very edge of the chair. Her feet were flat on the floor, as if

she were about to rise. Her hands in dark gloves clasped a flat dark handbag in

her lap.

 

Spade rocked back in his chair and asked: “Now what can I do for you, Miss

Wonderly?”