“Love-nest? I’m a slave here,” she cried dramatically. “I’ve helped John get ahead, skimped and managed when we were poor. I’ve a right to my own life. Every woman has. But as long as I’m married to him he’ll treat me like a poor relation, doling out the money as he sees fit.”
Shayne said, “Lots of wealthy men are like that. It gives them a feeling of power to control the purse-strings.” He paused to light a cigarette, asked negligently, “Do you go east often?”
“Very seldom. John’s so tied down with his business.”
“And he won’t let you travel alone?” Shayne asked sympathetically.
“No. That’s another thing I object to. It’s old-fashioned. But I just packed up and went anyway a couple of months ago. New York was wonderful.” Her eyes glowed with the recollection. “No one to tell me what I could or couldn’t do. That brief experience opened my eyes. I realized what life could be if I had some freedom. I made up my mind then to divorce John — long before I met Frank Carson.”
Shayne stared down at the carpet. “A couple of months ago.” He raised his eyes abruptly and asked, “Are you fond of gambling?”
She appeared taken aback, narrowed her eyes. “Not particularly. Why do you ask that?”
He shrugged. “It occurred to me that you might have taken a fling at it while you were east — discovering your freedom. I’ve even heard of people losing more than they could afford — more than they could pay.”
She laughed. “I’d never make a good gambler. I hate so to lose.”
He nodded and put out his cigarette. When he stood up, she lifted her black lashes coyly and asked, “You’re not going to arrest me?”