Blanche had been on the stage, and consequently she knew the value of “finis.”
He was to go on a hunting trip for a week, and in her opinion the critical moment had about arrived. She intuitively divined the end of the string. One night at a little dinner in the flat she talked to him about money matters, and such was the charm of her manner that presently he was telling her all about himself, and the romance of the ten thousand dollar bill.
“And how much have you left of all this?” she asked softly.
“Oh, I don’t know, about seven or eight hundred.”
“Well, I think you’ve been very, very foolish. You’re going away on a week’s trip and a hundred really ought to do you. Just give the rest to me and I will take good care of it until you come back, and then you will have it. You want to be careful of what you have now; you are altogether too liberal, and you do too much for people.”
That was the reason when he went away on that trip that he was a trifle shy financially, and so far to the bad that he had to borrow to get back in good shape.
From the Grand Central station he took a cab to the flat. It seemed as though he couldn’t get there quick enough. He went up the stairs two at a time. He came to the door.
There was a light, dim, but still a light, shining feebly over the transom. He put the key in the lock, turned it, opened the door and went in. He took four steps in the private hall. Then a man’s arm went around his neck and a voice asked:
“What are you doing here?”
He had nerve and he wasn’t the least bit flustered.