beside the bed as though she might be Madame Récamier on her couch receiving a couple of her lesser courtiers.
"Fred, I can tell more about the shooting last night; I'm going to do it," she said, looking at Fred, not at me. "You can decide how much to give out to the police—to the 'bulls,'" she added, deliberately blunting her speech and gazing at me. She swung back to Fred.
"I come from the cabarets, you know; maybe you've thought sometimes that I come from worse. Anyway, you treated me like you did."
"I'm sorry," said Fred and waited.
"That I didn't come from worse wasn't any fault of Jerry Fanneal. He was hot after me—hot after me.
Here was the start of a counter-attack on me; I felt it and demanded, "When was that?"
"Oh, before I married; long before the big surprise to his swell friends and family when he threw Dorothy Crewe into the street. He was comin' down to the cabarets for a long time, Didn't you know it, Mr. Steve Fanneal?"
"Yes;" I said. "Often I went with him."
"But often not; isn't that so? Tell the truth!" This was a straight challenge.
"Sometimes not," I granted.
