's a female party askin' for me in the front
office.

"Wha' d'ye mean--female party?" says I. "Is it a lady?"

"Ah-r-r-r chee!" says Swifty. "How do I know?"

That's some surprisin' too; for as a rule he ain't strong on drawin'
fine distinctions. If they're young and flossy dressed, he calls 'em
"fluffs"; but anything over twenty-five, no matter how she's costumed,
is a lady to Swifty, even a scrubwoman. So his describin' this visitor
as a female party gets me curious.

The minute I steps into the office and gets a glimpse at her, though, I
got Swifty's point of view. The battered old lid had been gay enough
once, a few seasons back, when the willow plume hadn't been dislocated
in four places, and before the velvet trimmin' had faded into so many
differ'nt shades. It had been a lady's hat once. And the face under it,
in spite of the red tip to the nose and the puffs under the eyes, might
have belonged to a lady. Anyway, there was traces of good looks there.
But the rusty black cloak that hung limp over the sagged shoulders, only
part hidin' the sloppy shirt waist and reachin' but halfway down the
side-hiked, draggled-edge skirt--that's the sure mark of a female party.
I don't know why, but it is.

Where they get cloaks like that is a mystery. You see 'em on women
panhandlers, on the old hags that camp on park benches, and in the jag
line at police courts. But you never see a new one. Perhaps they're made
special by second-hand shops for the female party trade.

"Well?" says I, lookin' her over cold and curious.

But you can't faze a female party so simple. They're used to that. She
stares back at me just as cool, and then remarks, "I guess you know who
I am well enough."

"Sure!" says I. "You're the long lost Duchess of Gainsborough, ain't
you?"

She just gazes at me brassy and shakes her head.

"Then you must be a lady snake agent," says I.

"What?" says she, scowlin' puzzled.

"I don't know the answer, either," says I. "Called for Professor McCabe,
didn't you? Well, you're connected. Shoot the rest of it."

"I'm Mrs. Fletcher Shaw," says she.

And for a minute there I couldn't place the name. Then it came to me.
"Oh!" says I. "Some relation of Josie Vernon's, eh?"

"Suppose I am?" she demands, eyin' me suspicious.

"Tut, tut, now!" says I. "You're the one that's occupyin' the witness
stand, you know. You were about to tell why you came."

"Was I?" says she. "You might guess that: you've had a man