"It is freezing cold in my room. I—"
"Don't blame me for that. I don't make the weather. And say, I'm busy. Cough up or—clear out."
"You will not let me have it for a few days if I—"
"Say, do you think I'm in business for my health? I haven't that much use—" she snapped her fingers—"for a fiddler anyhow. It's not a man's job. That's what I think of long-haired guys like—Beat it! I'm busy."
With head erect the little violinist turned away. He was half way to the door when she called out to him.
"Hey! Come back here! Now, see here, you little squirt, you needn't go turning up your nose at me and acting like that. I've got the goods on you and a lot more of those rummies up there. I looked 'em over the other night and I said to myself, says I: 'Gee whiz, couldn't I start something if I let out what I know about this gang!' Talk about earthquakes! They'd—Here! What are you doing? Get out from behind this counter! I'll call a cop if you—"
The pallid, impassioned face of Prince Waldemar de Bosky was close to hers; his dark eyes were blazing not a foot from her nose.
"If I thought you were that kind of a snake I'd kill you," he said quietly, levelly.
"Are—are you threatening me?" sputtered Mrs. Jacobs, trying in vain to look away from those compelling eyes. She could not believe her senses.
"No. I am merely telling you what I would do if you were that kind of a snake."