Dave Henderson watched her as she left the room.
Nicolo Capriano's fingers, from plucking at the counterpane, tapped gently on Dave Henderson's sleeve.
“We were speaking of money—for your immediate needs,” Nicolo Capriano suggested pleasantly.
Dave Henderson shook his head.
“I have enough to keep me going for a while,” he answered.
The old bomb king's eyebrows were slightly elevated.
“So! But you are just out of prison—and you said yourself that the police had followed you closely.”
Dave Henderson laughed shortly.
“That wasn't very difficult,” he said. “I had a friend who owed me some money before I went to the pen—some I had won on the race-track. I gave the police the slip without very much trouble last night in order to get here, and it was a good deal more of a cinch to put it over them long enough to get that money.”
“So!” said Nicolo Capriano again. “And this friend—what is his name?”