Tinker graced her hair with a wisp of a hat and said: "I'm ready."
Putting her hand in his arm, she followed him to the street and they drove to his cottage. He led her inside, seated her, and offered her a cigarette.
"Now, Tinker," he said seriously, "where is it?"
"Where is what?"
"The Key."
"You have it as far as I'm concerned."
"You know better than that."
"You had it."
"No, you're wrong. Cal had it."
"I'm wrong—who had it?" exploded Tinker as the words took.