Dorothy shook her head wearily. She missed John Dene. It was just beginning to dawn upon her how much she missed him. The days seemed interminable. There was nothing to do but answer the door to the repeated knocks, either of detectives or of journalists. It was a relief when Marjorie ran in to pick her up for lunch—Dorothy had felt it only fair to discontinue the elaborate lunches that were sent in—or on her way home in the evening.
"A man doesn't get lost like a pawn-ticket," announced Marjorie.
"What do you know about pawn-tickets, Rojjie?"
"Oh, I often pop things when I'm hard up," she announced nonchalantly.
"You don't!" cried Dorothy incredulously.
"Of course. What should I do when I'm stoney if it wasn't for uncle."
"You outrageous little creature!" cried Dorothy. "I should like to shake you."
"He's quite a nice youth, with black hair greased into what I think he would call a 'quiff.'"
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"Uncle, of course. He always gives me more than anyone else," she announced with the air of one conscious of a triumph.