In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. She shut the door behind her. He smiled inwardly. They're apt to be surly to strangers, but it soon wears off. Hill was exchanging greetings with his hostess, and salutations around the table. “Did she? I’m sorry, Mike. “John?” He turned around in the recliner. “Do you know,” she confessed, “I never thought of that?” He looked at her as though doubting even now whether she could possibly be in earnest. The door was too strong, and too well secured, to break open,—the walls too thick: but the ceiling,—if he could reach it—there, he doubted not, he could make an outlet.
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