“Getting copy for a book, eh? Local colour—and local atmosphere.”
“The atmosphere was pretty foul,” rejoined Shafto; “I don’t attempt to write.”
“Not even fiction?”
There was a bitter sneer in Krauss’s question.
“No, not even fiction,” echoed Shafto stolidly.
“Now, I’ll tell you all something that sounds like fiction or a dime novel,” volunteered the irrepressible Fuchsia. Then, without a pause, she continued: “Mr. FitzGerald got a note from a broken-down European loafer; a gentleman who had lost every single thing in the wide world—self-respect, money, friends and wits—through drugs and nothing else; he could not keep away from them unless he was chained up, but he wanted to save others from his own wretched fate.”
“That was very splendid of the loafer!” remarked Mr. Krauss, and leaning back in his chair he beckoned to a waiter and said: “Boy, champagne!” When the champagne was brought, he said: “Let us all drink the health of this noble loafer, who cannot help himself but helps others. Here’s to the benevolent informer! Let us hope he will meet with his reward—even in this life,” and he raised a brimming glass.
“I’m afraid there’s not much chance of that, poor chap,” murmured Shafto, “for if he is a man I know, he is down and under—his case is hopeless.”
Mrs. Pomeroy, who had been slowly drawing on her gloves, now pushed back her chair and rose and, with sudden unanimity, the company broke up and dispersed.
Little did Fuchsia suppose, as she chattered unguardedly and gave away a confidence, that, in doing so, she had signed what was neither more nor less than a sentence of death.