“You don’t mean” — her voice was breathless — “you don’t mean that you are—”
“I am Cliff Marsland!”
“Say” — Madge’s tone was filled with admiration and approval — “you’re some guy, big boy! Gee! I never thought that you were Cliff Marsland!
“They’re all talking about you — they figure you’re a big shot — the way you busted up that flock of gorillas. Durgan never pulled a stunt like that. They’ve been wondering where you were and here it was you, right in our hotel!”
“My official name,” said Cliff quietly, “is Clinton Martin. Remember that. As for your friend, Killer Durgan” — there was sarcasm in his voice — “don’t worry about what might happen to me if I met him!”
There was nothing boastful in Cliff’s tone. His words made a marked impression upon Madge. She nestled beside him in the cab.
“You’ve been doing a stretch in the Big House, haven’t you?” she said softly.
“Yes,” replied Cliff.
“Are you looking for a moll?”
“Not now.”