"You're a game kid! Dead game and I don't mind saying so!"
They had stopped; the whisper was dropped for a low-toned voice. It was not Babe Deveril! Not Mexicali Joe. Then Taggart?
"I want to talk to you. I take it he is in there. Asleep? So much the better. I'm Taggart."
"Well? What can I do for you, Mr. Taggart?"
"That gun of yours," he said. "I don't know how used you are to guns. Knowing who I am you can point it down!"
"Knowing who you are," she returned coolly, "I keep it just as it is! I have asked what I could do for you?"
"I've seen Babe Deveril. He's told me all about everything."
"Babe Deveril! When? Where is he?"
Jim Taggart, had time and opportunity afforded, would have laughed at her quickened exclamation, being an evil-thoughted individual with restricted mental horizons. She appeared interested. He had his own mind of her sex and it was not high, since those of her sex with whom such as Jim Taggart consorted were not such as to give a man a high idea of femininity. In the words which, had he spoken his thought aloud, would have been his, Taggart estimated that "he had this dame's number, street, and telephone."