“Why would it be dishonest?”
“Because I’ve already given a release to the insurance company.”
“But it was the wrong insurance company, the wrong driver.”
“I know, but, nevertheless, I’ve accepted that money.”
“They’ve paid it to you,” Bertha said. “It’s their hard luck.”
“No, I couldn’t do that. It wouldn’t be ethical. It wouldn’t be honest.”
“Listen,” Bertha said, “the insurance companies have lots of money. They’re rolling in wealth. This man was driving a car. He was so drunk he didn’t know what he was doing. When Mrs. Cranning rang him up and told him that he’d hit you, knocked you down, and then made passes at you going home, he really thought he’d done so. He told her he’d have his insurance company get on the job right away. He called up his insurance company and said, ‘I’m in an awful jam. I was driving a car last night. I was so drunk I don’t know what happened, and I hit this girl. She’s had a concussion of the brain and is lying on a couch out there at the house of the man who employed her. For God’s sake get on the job quick and clean the thing up.’ ”
“Well?” Josephine Dell asked. “Suppose he did?”
“Don’t you see what happened? He didn’t hit you at all, and because you gave them a release, it doesn’t mean a thing. In other words, if I should be ninny enough to offer you a thousand dollars for a complete release of any and all claims you might have against me, because I hit you with an automobile, it wouldn’t prevent you from collecting from someone who did hit you with an automobile.”
A frown puckered the smooth skin of Josephine Dell’s forehead. Her blonde hair glinted in the sunlight as she turned her head to look out of the window while she studied the proposition. Then, at length, she gave Bertha Cool her answer, a firm, determined shake of the head.