Mrs. Talbot left him. He rubbed his knuckles slowly across his eye, his breath catching quickly. Then he spied Georgia's hand bag. There was the trouble-money—twenty dollars, a round, golden double eagle. He opened the handbag to—well, to look at it. He spun it; he palmed it; he tossed it in the air, calling heads. It came tails. He tried it again and it came heads. That settled it. He slipped the coin into his pocket, and went out of the room. At least there was salvage in leaving one's wife.
After supper Georgia packed up his things, every stick and stitch of them, and with the aid of Al drew them out into the hallway.
Later in the evening a politician, one of Ed Miles', knocked at the door.
"Good evening, ma'am, I'm from the Fortieth Ward Club. I have a message for Mr. Connor. He's wanted at headquarters right away."
"He doesn't live here any more."
"He doesn't live here any more."
The politician was perplexed.
"Where does he live?"