"I knew it." Mrs. Ritchie stood up. "I knew it the minute you walked in. We're not nervous enough, oh, no, now we've got to listen to the great city editor and his news behind the news."
"Very well!" Kaplan rose shakily. He was drunk; it showed now. "If I'm not welcome here, then I shall go elsewhere to breathe my last."
"Never mind," Mrs. Ritchie said. "Sit down. I've had a stomach full of this wake. If you two insist on sitting up until X-hour like a couple of ghouls, well, that's your business. I'm going to bed. And to sleep."
"What a woman," Kaplan muttered, polishing off the martini. "Nerves of chilled steel."
Mrs. Ritchie looked at her husband for a moment. Then she said, "Good night, dear," and started for the door.
"See you in the morning," Mr. Ritchie said. "Get a good sleep."
Then Max Kaplan giggled. "Yeah, a real good sleep."
Mrs. Ritchie left the room.
The big man fumbled for a cigarette. He glanced at the clock. "Hank, for Chrissake—"