Doc AńselI and Bogle came into the bar. They were wearing tuxedos. Bogle looked like an
Eastside waiter.
“There you are,” Ansell said, drawing up a chair. “We’ve been having a little trouble with Whisky, otherwise we’d’ve been down before.”
I introduced Juden who nodded vaguely.
Myra examined Bogle thoughtfully. “What you need is an ermine dicky, Sam,” she said. “It would set off that dress suit.”
Sam was looking at her with undisguised admiration. “Gee!” he exploded. “That dress you’ve nearly got on is the horse’s hoofs!”
“Never mind that,” I broke in. “We’ve got a little brain work ahead of us,” and I gave Ansell the photograph.
He studied it and then passed it to Bogle. “That’s Mr. Maddox handing over the reward, I suppose,” he said.
I nodded. It surprised me he didn’t say anything about the girl in the picture. He just glanced thoughtfully at Myra, pursed his lips and then studied his small brown hands.
Bogle, however, had plenty to say. “What’s she doing in this picture?” he demanded. “How did she get to New York anyway and if she’s got the cheque, where is it?”