"I'm not a gambler," retorted Durkin as crisply. His earlier timidity had faded away, and more and more he felt the relish of this adventure with the powers that were opposing him.
"I suppose not—but how much were your losses?"
"I've lost nothing!" Durkin was growing impatient of this curtly condescending tone. It was the ponderosity of officialdom, he felt, grown playful, in the face of a passing triviality.
The district-attorney turned over the card which had been brought in to him, with a deprecating uplift of the eyebrows.
"Most of the people who come here to talk about Penfield and his friends come to tell me how much they've lost." He leaned back, and sent a little cloud of cigarette smoke ceilingward. "And, of course, it's part of this office's duty to keep a fool and his money together—as long as possible. What is it I can do for you?"
"I want your help to get a woman out of Penfield's new downtown house!"
"What woman?"
"She is—well, she is a very near friend of mine! She's being held a prisoner there!"
"By the police?"
"No, by certain of Penfield's men."