"Yes," he admitted, with a beaming look. "But when I go broke, all other things failin', I allers tackle a pawnbroker."
"We ain't got nothin' to pawn," sighed Amarilly.
She recalled the lace waist, but that, like the Lily Rose fund, was sacred. There was always, to-day, yesterday, and forever, the surplice, and her scruples regarding that article had of necessity become case- hardened; still, Amarilly hesitated. A pawnshop seemed lower than a police court.
"It's been everywhere else," she said loudly to the accusing, still, small voice, "and it might jest as well go the limit. 'T won't bring much, but 'twill help."
Through byways and highways Amarilly sought the region of the three- balled porticoes. The shop of one Max Solstein attracted her, and she entered his open door. Max, rat-eyed and frog-mouthed, came forward propitiatingly.
"What'll you gimme on this?" came with directness from the small importuner.
He took the garment, shook it, and held it up for falcon-gaze inspection.
"Not worth much. A quarter of a dollar."
Amarilly snatched it from his grasp and fled. Not because of his low- figured offer; she had fully expected to have to "beat him up." But when she had entered, a youth who had all the recognized earmarks of a reporter was lounging in the doorway. At sight of the uplifted garment he had come eagerly forward, scenting a story. She knew his kind from snatches of conversation she had heard between the leading lady and Lord Algernon. In the lore of the stage at Barlow's, reporters were "hovering vultures" who always dropped down when least wanted, and they had a way of dragging to light the innermost thoughts of their victims.
"You read your secrets," Lord Algernon had dramatically declared, "in blazoned headlines."