He went out through the smaller door, slamming it behind him.
Mrs. Deaves turned hard inimical eyes on her husband. "Then it's up to you to find the money," she said.
"But, my dear," he whined, "you know my circumstances. How can I? Where? It is out of the question!"
"I don't care where you get it; you get it," she returned callously. "If that story is published I leave this house. You know what that means."
She marched out by the main door.
Evan could not but feel for the poor, crushed, flabby creature at the desk. In Evan's own phrase George got it coming and going. He was like a pricked bladder; all his pomposity had escaped like gas.
"What am I to do?" he murmured.
"Get the money together," said Evan, "and pay it over according to their orders. Then let me see if I can't get it back again—and get them, too."