The voice from the window interrupted her.
"That paper—the one he had under the floor—Crowder said a piece was tore out?"
"Yes, part of his correspondence letter—the last paragraph about me. Don't you remember it? It was that one after 'The Zingara' started, way back in August. I showed it to you here one evening. I thought maybe Mayer had read it and that was what brought him to see me—got him sort of curious. But Charlie thinks he wasn't bothering about papers just then. He had it on him and used it to wrap up the money and that piece got torn out someway by accident."
"Um—looks that way."
The current of air was chilling the room, and Pancha, shivering under the blanket, protested.
"Say, Pa, aren't you going to shut that window? It's letting in an awful draught." He made no movement to do so, and, surprised at his indifference to her comfort, she said uneasily, "You ain't got a fever, have you?"
"Let me alone," he muttered. "Didn't I tell you these het-up rooms knock me out."
She was silent—a quality in his voice, a husky thinness as if its vigor was pinching out, made her anxious. He was worn to the bone, the shade of himself. She slid her feet to the floor, and throwing off the blanket said:
"Looks like to me something is the matter with you. The room ain't hot."
"Oh, forget it. For God's sake, quit this talk about me."