“We’ve got to have a rig to take us to Winnetka,” said Orme. “Our car broke down.”
The old man reflected. “Can’t do it,” he said, at last. “All shet up fer the night. Can’t leave the missus alone.”
A head protruded from a dark upper window. “Yes, you can, Simeon,” growled a woman’s guttural voice.
“Wall—I don’t know——”
“Yes, you can.” She turned to Orme. “He’ll take ye fer five dollars cash. Ye can pay me.”
Orme turned to Bessie. “Have you any money?” he whispered.
“Heavens! I left my hand-bag in my locker at the clubhouse. How stupid!”
“Never mind.” Orme saw that he must lose the marked bill after all. Regretfully he took it from his pocket. The woman had disappeared from the window, and now she came to the door and stood behind her husband. Wrapped in an old blanket, she made a gaunt figure, not unlike a squaw. As Orme walked up the two or three steps, she stretched her hand over her husband’s shoulder and snatched the bill, examining it closely by the lamplight.
“What’s this writin’ on it?” she demanded, fiercely.
“Oh, that’s just somebody’s joke. It doesn’t hurt anything.”