Mr. Moto Is So Sorry by John P. Marquand Page B

he gave you, the one you put in your purse. They know you have it, Miss Dillaway. You must get rid of it at once.”
    She pushed her hair back from her forehead again.
    â€œWhy should he be killed on account of that?” she asked.
    Calvin Gates shook his head. “You’ll have to take my word for it,” he said. “There isn’t any time to find out why. I’m asking you to give me your purse with that cigarette case right away.”
    â€œBut why?” she asked him. “Aren’t you going to tell me why?”
    â€œNot now,” said Calvin Gates.
    Miss Dillaway put her head to one side. “But why should I?” she asked.
    â€œBecause I’m asking you,” Calvin said, “and I’m asking you to do it quickly, because you need help worse than you ever did in your life.”
    She stood there for a moment small and straight in her light green gown, like a painting in a gallery, and then she smiled.
    â€œMy knight,” she said, “my knight in armor.”
    The effect of her remark on Calvin was not agreeable.
    â€œI wish you wouldn’t call me that,” he said. “You can either give me your purse or not.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Gates,” she said, and her voice was suddenly contrite. “I’m generally able to look out for myself, you know. Suppose I give you my purse, then what?”
    â€œIn half an hour I want you to ring your bell,” Calvin told her. “Open your door and scream if you want to. Say a man broke into your room and snatched your purse. Say that you think he was a Russian. Make all the noise you like, I’ll be there to help.”
    She looked at him and said nothing.
    â€œWell,” said Calvin Gates, “will you do it, or won’t you?”
    When she answered all her embarrassment had gone.
    â€œI never thought I’d do a thing like this,” she said: “do what I’m told without knowing why. I don’t know anything about you. I don’t know why I do it. Are you really going on that expedition, Gates? I’m all alone here. Are you really being honest?”
    â€œI’m going to leave with you for Peiping tomorrow,” Calvin told her.
    Miss Dillaway put her hand under the pillow of her bed, and drew out her worn black leather handbag. Now that she was in her green gown the handbag looked incongruous.
    â€œI’ll take my money and my passport out,” she said.
    â€œPlease don’t,” said Calvin Gates. “That’s what you are to make the row about, because your money and your passport are gone. Don’t speak about the cigarette case until they ask you.” He took the bag out of her hand.
    â€œRemember,” he said, “in half an hour.”
    Miss Dillaway nodded.
    â€œI don’t know anything about it,” she said, “but I suppose I ought to thank you, Gates.” There was an added touch of color in her cheeks and her eyes were bright. “Take care of yourself, will you, Gates? I don’t want to miss you on the train tomorrow.”

CHAPTER VII
    Take care of yourself, Gates .
    Those casual words had an ironical sound when he stopped to think of them.
    â€œYes,” his thoughts were whispering, “I don’t much care what happens. I might as well go out this way as any other.”
    He was under no illusions, since Mr. Moto’s implications, though gentle, had been precise. It was in Mr. Moto’s power to make him disappear as completely as the man whom he had spoken to that night. He lay in his bed five minutes later, listening, occasionally looking at his watch, but there was no sound to indicate that the hotel was not asleep. It was up to Miss Dillaway to do the rest, and he wondered if she would. As it happened, she did it very well, better than he had hoped.
    First he heard the lift moving and a pounding of steps on the stairs. Then he heard Miss Dillaway’s voice in the