"Getaway," she said, with a quick little dig of fingers into his forearm, "you're up to something!"
"Snuff, I said."
"What did you mean by that word, 'bond'?"
"Who built a high fence around the word 'bond'?"
"Bonds! All that stuff in the newspapers about those messengers disappearing out of Wall Street with—bonds! Getaway, are you mixed up in that? Getaway!"
"Well, well! I like that! I had you doped out for fair and warmer to-day. The weather prophet didn't predict no brainstorm."
"That's not answering."
"Well, whadda you know! Miss Sherlock Holmes finds a corkscrew in the wine cellar and is sore because it's crooked!"
"Getaway—answer."
"Whadda you want me to answer, Fairylin? That I'm the master mind behind the—"