Read Playing to Win for Free Online Page B

sharp tone there was no mistaking. Unfortunately, she spoke
in such a thick Cockney that Clarissa did not understand her
remarks.
    "I beg your pardon," said Clarissa in
her soft, cultured voice. "I mistook this place for a public
house."
    The woman's martial air relaxed a
little. She shooed Clarissa back out the door, but in a kindly way.
"If you go round the front, miss, they'll take care of you there,"
she said, speaking more distinctly.
    "Round the front?" repeated
Clarissa.
    Her benefactress jerked a helpful
thumb.
    "Thank you," Clarissa said politely.
She turned to walk away, but was apparently facing the wrong
direction; the matron clucked her tongue and called, "Now, now,
miss!" (Or it may have been, "No, no"—Clarissa was not
sure.)
    "You'll never find it that way. Come on
back, dearie, and I'll take you through the kitchen."
    This was the first piece of
disinterested kindness Clarissa had met in many days. Her smile was
absurdly tremulous as she thanked the woman. Chuckling, the matron
ushered her back through the kitchen and into a bewildering maze of
dark hallways.
    "Here you are, then," she promised,
holding open a narrow wooden door. Clarissa stepped through it and
found herself in a surprisingly luxurious foyer. But a foyer to
what? She turned to ask the kind woman from the kitchen, but that
busy individual had already vanished.
    Clarissa glanced about, a trifle
nervously. There was not a soul to be seen. A large counter ran
along one wall, with a row of pigeonholes behind it, some of them
stuffed with papers, some not. An array of keys hung on numbered
pegs beside the pigeonholes. A brass bell rested on the countertop,
presumably to summon whatever individual worked behind it. There
was a ledger beside the bell, turned to face the customer rather
than the counter-worker. Several neatly-sharpened quills and an
inkwell were arrayed beside the ledger. The place seemed eerily
familiar.
    Well, naturally it did. This was
obviously a hotel. She had walked through the lobby of just such a
hotel not very long ago, had she not? Clarissa crossed to the
elegant front door and peered through the glass panes set
decoratively in its center. As she expected, it gave onto a
crowded, noisy stableyard, very much like the one she had seen at
Grisham’s.
    In fact, exactly like the one she had
seen at Grisham’s.
    Clarissa struggled against a rising
tide of foreboding. For all she knew, she reminded herself firmly,
every hotel in London had the same appearance! Still, she must not
wait to make sure of where she was. A clerk or innkeeper would
arrive at any moment. Fighting back panic, she stepped out the door
and looked upward.
    The swinging sign above her read,
"Grisham's."
    A tiny sound escaped her. She hoped she
would not faint. Part of her wanted to scream with vexation, and
part of her wanted to collapse in defeat. This could only happen to
her!
    She turned to make a dash for the
street, but before she could do so, a hand, viselike, closed on the
back of her neck. The fingers felt long, strong, and inexorable.
Clarissa gasped, and stopped in her tracks.
    "Why, Clarissa!" said Mr. Whitlatch, in
a voice of honeyed steel. "How delightful to see you
again."

Chapter 4
     
    Her head held motionless in that
unyielding grip, Clarissa's eyes darted frantically round the
stableyard. It was full only of sniggering ostlers. Their sly,
vulgar grins reminded her of a pack of salivating jackals. Male
jackals. She would find no rescuer here. Helpless, she allowed
herself to be propelled into the inn by the hand on the back of her
neck.
    Clarissa walked with as much dignity as
she could muster, but her cheeks burned with shame. The steady
pressure of Mr. Whitlatch's fingers compelled her to walk back
through the foyer and into the very parlor from which she had
escaped. The irony struck her like a fist. All her wanderings had
achieved exactly nothing. She could weep from pure
frustration.
    The door shut behind them with a snap,
and Mr.