a match twice; never tied a shoelace—or a strangling knot—so that it came undone. He hadn't outlined the form of the circus lady on a board with sharp knives twice a day, six months running, for nothing. What was the matter? Get ting a case of nerves—or Scotch. Last night the drinks had outrun his usual cautious ration.
That check! Again the signature looped and coiled across his fancy like a reptile across a virgin sheet.And for once the debonair MacAllister was experiencing remorse—though of a very practical sort. His whole life had been foreshadowed, summed up, in that short semester at the Seminary, where he had spent enough time in devising ingenious schemes for "cribbing" to stand at the head of his class, had the hours been given to real study. But the quickening of conscience—or of the canny instinct which served him in lieu of that—was not registered on his imperturbable features. MacAllister might be hunted, but he never would wear a hunted look. And tomorrow was another day!
Immediately he struck another note, one which alarmed Carlotta, part banter though it may have been.
"Suppose we take real estate instead of cash?"
"Real estate!" she shot back, "what d'y' mean? Live in that burg? Oh, Mac, have a heart!"
"No—sentence suspended—I just happened to remember that the old man had a yacht."
"Say!" She retorted, "what kind of a dirty deed d'y' think this is? Contrac's all drawn up by a not'ry an' everythin'? Fat chance you got of bein' handed a steam yacht!" But she paused for reflection—of course, he was
