"Your wife is still ill, otherwise—" "Yes, yes … of course," Fred assented, dismissing the subject with an impatient shrug.
Finally, on a certain afternoon at about two o'clock, Watson came in quite unexpectedly.
"I think by to-night everything will be settled. … What can I do for you? … Perhaps you would like to go to your apartment and get some things together… Or see a friend… Just say the word." Fred roused himself. A fleeting rebellion flickered and died. He wanted nothing … least of all to so much as see his former dwelling place. He made only one request.
"If you're passing that dance hall where they arrested me—you know, near Jackson Street—drop in and ask for a girl called Ginger. I'd like to see her."
Watson smiled widely…
The girl Ginger came that very afternoon. She was dressed very quietly in black, with only a faint trace of make-up on her cheeks. Almost anyone would have mistaken her for a drab little shopgirl. Fred felt awkward in her presence.
"I'm going away to-night—for some time," he said, when she had seated herself. "And I wanted to thank you for your interest when—"
She shook her head. "That wasn't anything," she answered.
He wondered what next to say. It was she who spoke finally.
"I suppose you got out of your mess all right," she half queried.