“Pryor, by God!” he cried.
“He knows you pretty well,” she said. “So do I now!”
He swung away from her, back to his chair, dropped into it and began to laugh. “Old Pryor! Doddering old Pryor! Doddering old ass of a Pryor! So he did! Blood of an angel! what a stew, what a stew!” He rose again, mirthless. “Well, what did he say?”
She had begun to tremble, not with fear. “He said a good deal.”
“Well, what was it? What did he tell you?”
“I think you’ll find it plenty!”
“Come on!”
“You!” She pointed at him.
“Let’s have it.”
“He told me”—she burst out furiously—“he said you were a professional sharper!”