Drake, who had been in communication with his San Francisco branch office on another telephone, came in through a connecting door and said, “I have a report on Evelyn Whiting, Perry. She’s a registered nurse. She’s been married and divorced, resumed her maiden name, and has her own private opinion on husbands, taken by and large, as a class and as individuals.”
“Like that, eh?” Mason asked, grinning.
“Exactly,” Drake said.
“She didn’t impress me as being a man-hater,” Mason told him.
“I didn’t say she was a man-hater,” Drake said. “I said she was a husband-hater.”
“So what?” Mason asked.
“So when Moar fell for her like a ton of bricks and wanted her to marry him, she said nothing doing, they’d be friends and that was all.”
“Wasn’t she a bit high-powered for a chap of Moar’s type?” Mason asked.
“I don’t know,” Drake said. “You saw Moar, I didn’t. But I gathered that Moar rated about one date a week and she was trotting out to night clubs in between times. In other words, her intentions weren’t honorable or serious. Moar’s were.”
“Where did you get the dope?” Mason asked.