"I've known the lady for a few years," I laughed, "and I've yet to find her true either to herself or to the hand that paid her."
It was characteristic of the man that, at these last words, he made no quick glance at my face. Instead, he studied the end of his cigar. When he did look at me, it was in the perfectly natural way of asking a question.
Then I got a start. He suddenly struck straight from the shoulder.
"By 'the hand that paid her,' you mean?" he asked—and now, his eyes were fairly drilling into mine.
I took on a look of surprise.
"What does it usually mean?" I answered, with a bit of a shrug.
He either had to appear to accept the inference in this answer or else ask me blankly if I meant that Mrs. Spencer was in his employ. He chose the former.
"It is very difficult to associate such a beautiful woman with the demi-monde," he said.
"Yet, Saint Anthony would stand no chance with her."
He looked at me with an amused smile.