“Well, I expect it’s in Europe by this,” said Hank, laying down the last of his letters. “Or sunning itself on Palm Beach, or listening to the band somewhere. It bolted with the cash box three weeks ago, leaving me a thousand dollars to carry on with.”
“Good Lord,” said George, horror-stricken, yet amazed at the coolness of the other and the way he had managed to keep his disaster concealed from all and sundry; for at the Club Hank was considered a man of substance, almost too much substance for a Bohemian.
“It’s true,” said Hank.
“How many men were in it?”
“No men, it was a woman.”
“You were in partnership with a woman?”
“Yep.”
“Well, she might have done worse,” said George, “she might have married you.”
Hank, by way of reply, took a photograph from a drawer in the table and handed it to George, who gazed at it for half a minute and handed it back.
“I see,” said he, “but what made you have anything to do with her?”