"I guess this new plan makes it a lot easier than the way we were going to work it."
Simon saw the girl half rising from the settee. In a flash, he had flung one arm round her, pinning her down, and clapped his other hand over her mouth.
"Maybe it'll save a little trouble, anyway," spoke the second man. There came the scratch of a match, and then: "What are you doing about the girl?"
"I don't know… She's a pretty little piece, but she's getting too serious. I'll have to ditch her in Paris."
"She'll be sore."
"Well, she ought to know how to take the breaks. I had to keep her going to get us in here, but it ain't my fault if she wants to make it a permanency."
"What about her share?"
"Aw, I might send her a coupla hundred, just for conscience money. She ain't a bad kid. Too sentimental, that's all."
A short pause, and then the second man again: "Well, that's your business. It's just a quarter past eleven. Guess I better see Watkins and make sure he's ready to fix those lights."
The leisured feet receded again; and Simon released the girl slowly. He saw that she was as white as a sheet, and there were strange tears in her eyes. He lighted a cigarette methodically. It was a tough life for women — always had been. They had to know how to take the breaks.