While across the card was hastily written, in a hand distinctively feminine:
Mr. Fairchild: This is my good friend. He will help you. There is no fee attached. Please destroy.
Anita Richmond.
"Bu—but I don't understand."
"You know Miss—er—the writer of this card, don't you?"
"But why should she—?"
Mr. Farrell, barrister-at-law, grinned broadly.
"I see you don't know Miss—the writer of this card at all. That's her nature. Besides—well, I have a habit of making long stories short. All she 's got to do with me is crook her finger and I 'll jump through. I 'm—none of your business. But, anyway, here I am—"
Fairchild could not restrain a laugh. There was something about the man, about his nervous, yet boyish way of speaking, about his enthusiasm, that wiped out suspicion and invited confidence. The owner of the Blue Poppy mine leaned forward.
"But you did n't finish your sentence about—the writer of that card."
"You mean—oh—well, there 's nothing to that. I 'm in love with her. Been in love with her since I 've been knee-high to a duck. So 're you. So 's every other human being that thinks he's a regular man. So's Maurice Rodaine. Don't know about the rest of you—but I have n't got a chance. Don't even think of it any more—look on it as a necessary affliction, like wearing winter woolens and that sort of thing. Don't let it bother you. The problem right now is to get your partner out of jail. How much money have you got?"