"Quite so," the legless man commented dryly. "Well, it wouldn't matter to me if she went on a tear and was found dead in her bed."
"It's worth fifty." Something in the unshaven man's voice suggested that he had once been remotely connected with some sort of a business.
The legless man shook his head. "Judas Iscariot," he said, "betrayed the Lord God for thirty. Fanny McIver's scalp isn't worth a cent over twenty-five. You're just a broken-down drunk. It takes a bigger bluffer than you to make me put an insult on Christendom. Fifteen down. Ten when Fanny's had her last hang-over."
"Why don't you do some of your dirty work yourself?"
"I do all I can," said the legless man simply; "I can't find time for everything."
The unshaven man shifted uneasily on his shabby feet. In his stomach the flames which only alcohol can quench were burning with a steady gnawing fury. "How about a little drink?" he said.
"Fifteen down," said the legless man; "ten when the job's done, and a ticket to Chicago."
"With a reservation? I'll feel like the devil; I couldn't sit up all night."
"I'll throw in an upper," said the legless man.
Still the unshaven man resisted. "What's Fanny done to you?"