Dago George laid his forefinger along his nose—and smiled reassuringly.
“Ah, yes!” he said. “Yes, yes, I understand—eh? But you need have no fear. I do not take guests, except”—he shrugged his shoulders—“except—you understand, eh?—to oblige a friend like Cunny Smeeks. Otherwise”—again the shoulders lifted—“I would not have the so-great honor of offering you a room. Is it not so? Well, then, there is no one here, except”—he jerked his thumb toward the opposite door across the hall—“my niece, who will not trouble you; and in the next room to hers a friend of mine, who will not trouble you either. There is no one else. You need have no fear. I assure you, you need have no fear.”
Bookie Skarvan nodded.
“That's all right, then,” he said in a cordial and relieved tone.
“It's only that I got to be careful.”
He shook hands with Dago George, as the latter again bade him good-night. He closed his door, and sat down. The bulge of the protruding cigar butt metamorphosed what was intended for an amiable smile into an unlovely grimace.
“Niece—eh?” murmured Bookie Skarvan to himself. “Well, well—and in the room across the hall! I guess I won't go to bed just yet, not just yet—but I guess I'll put out the light.”