Bogle drew a deep breath, “And now,” he said, hitching up his trousers, “I’m going to smack her one. Sister, am I going to bounce you off a wall!”
Ansell frowned. “Don’t be so primitive, Bogle,” he said. “You should never strike a woman.”
“Not in public, anyway,” I added.
“I’ll take her some place quiet,” Bogle pleaded.
“Certainly not,” Ansell said. Now that he had got his money, he seemed to take a much more agreeable view of life. He turned to Myra, “Now, young lady,” he said briskly, “I want to talk to you. I admire cleverness. That was a neat trick you pulled on us. A very neat trick. I deplore your ethics, of course,” he added hastily, “but there can be no mistaking talent. You have great talent.”
Myra seemed inclined to be sore. “Go boil your head, you old owl,” she said and turned her back on him.
Ansell looked upset, “Pity,” he muttered; then catching my eye, he went on, “And you, sir? Who may you be?”
“The name is Ross Millan,” I said. “I’m a representative of the New York Reporter.”
“New York Reporter?” Ansell’s eyes opened. “That’s one of America’s greatest newspapers. I’m pleased to know you, Mr. Millan.” He offered his hand, “I’m only sorry that we should meet under such distressing circumstances.”
“That’s okay with me,” I said, shaking his hand. “You don’t have to worry about that. Miss Shumway has an advanced sense of humour. I know you boys can take a joke.”