“Kind of a five-gaited job,” I said to Norton.
“Or anyway five-faced, we could safely say.”
So while we were snickering at that, they came over, Keyes looking very noble, Jane patting his hand in a forgiving kind of way. And then Norton snapped his fingers and cocked his eye across the lobby and we all looked. And headed for the dining room, a $40 plumed hat on her head, $40 suede shoes on her feet, a $150 black crepe dress giving the works to her shape, and the mink coat hanging carelessly off her shoulders, was Jenkins, and a little bit behind her, but not too much behind her, a carnation in his buttonhole and a Swede grin on his face, was Lindstrom, the detective. We all wondered the same thing, whether this was some more police stuff that would mean we could begin to worry all over again, and it didn’t take any high sign from Norton to start us all over to the dining room door. But by the time we got there we knew we could quit worrying. The captain was seating them, and he couldn’t see it, but we could: Lindstrom was playing footie with her, and she was giving it the old Limehouse leer.
So that’s how Jenkins came to live in Reno too, and how Jane, whenever she’s got a big party coming on, has just about the slickest personal maid service anybody ever had. We throw quite a few parties, it seems. Maybe that’s because we’ve got a collection of five cups in our trophy room, to say nothing of the Count’s first, that I kind of like people to look at. Maybe it’s because Jane is a swell girl that likes people, I don’t know. Anyway, we’re happy, she, I, and the little lady that was waiting upstairs, and that’s a wonderful thing.