The Green Jacket (Mystery Classics Series). Jennette Lee

      Chapter I

       Table of Contents

      The elevator-boy tossed her a kindly grin as she stepped into the elevator. But she seemed not to notice. She was a small woman in gray—gray eyes and hair, and the close-fitting suit and small hat were of soft gray. Any one passing her in a crowd would not have noticed her. There might have been the sense of something pleasant that had passed—a subtle perfume that came elusively, but nothing to recall. The only bit of color about her was a knitted green-silk purse in her hand, with curiously wrought gold fittings. It went oddly well with the gray dress and hat.

      The elevator-boy looked back over his shoulder.

      "Good morning, Miss Newberry," he said quietly.

      "Good morning, Joe. How goes the day?"

      "All right—now," answered Joe with elaborate emphasis.

      She smiled a little and stepped out at the seventh floor.

      "You've been kissing the Blarney stone again!" she said reprovingly.

      He grinned and slammed the grated door behind her. His head as it descended into the abyss was turned admiringly to the trim gray figure going down the corridor to the left.

      At the first corner she turned sharp to the right, and was facing a ground-glass door at the end of the hall. The dark letters, against the light in the room beyond, stood out clearly:

      The Millicent Newberry Agency

       consultations from

       10-12 and 2-4

       or by appointment

      She opened the green-silk purse and took out a little key and inserted it in the lock and opened the door.

      The room was an ordinary small office, with a desk and three chairs. A rather beautiful old rug covered the floor. The walls were gray. The only color in the room besides the blended harmony of the rug was the green shade at the window and a green blotter on the desk. . . . As she came in she lifted a small pasteboard box from beside the door and carried it with her to the desk.

      The lifted cover revealed a few flowers, that she arranged in a light bunch and placed in a glass on the desk.

      She removed her hat and coat, hanging them in the closet. And from the closet she produced a pair of paper sleeve-protectors and a dustless duster, with which she wiped the already spotless furniture. She straightened the shade and returned the duster and paper cuffs to the closet, and seated herself by the desk, arranging the ink-stand and pens, erasers and pencils in exact order.

      All her movements were deft and precise and still—hardly more than a passing of grayness. Yet there was nothing ethereal about her. She was plump and healthy, and a little stout. In her gray eye there was a look of keenness as it glanced around the spotless office. An artist might have liked to paint her as she sat beside her desk—so perfect was the setting of the room for her personality.

      She opened a drawer at the right of the desk and took out a soft bundle of green wool and spread it out on her lap. It was the beginning of a knitted garment. The needles were amber.

      She took them up, and dropping the ball of wool into the half-open drawer, she began to knit.

      The sunlight, shining across the many-colored rug, fell on the desk and lighted the glass of flowers and touched the gray fig ure warmly. The needles moving swiftly through her fingers glowed with the warmth. One could not have guessed, watching the bent head and the thoughtful gray eyes that followed the needles, what was the purpose of the "Agency" on the ground-glass door. Seen from this side it was meaningless.

      ycnegA yrrebweN tnecilliM ehT

       morf snoitatlusnoc

       4-2 and 21-O1

       tnemtnioppa yb ro

      A quick knock sounded on the door and she looked up. She tossed