"Shut up!" said Garry. "How on earth do you suppose that I can work with you talking all over the studio? Here are three pages of checks when you were evidently hitting the high spots, that you've failed to subtract. Three on a page. That makes your balance overdrawn."
Kenny struck an attitude of acute despair. "God of my fathers!" he groaned, changing color. "It can't be. Garry, it simply can not be!"
"It can and is," said Garry pushing away the book.
"Adams still owes me five thousand dollars for his wife's portrait," sputtered Kenny.
"And now he's out of town."
"What on earth did you do with Reynolds' last check? You had enough there to live a year."
Kenny looked dazed.
"I recognized the danger with Brian's commercial instinct gone," he stammered, "and—and conserved my funds."
"You must have. You bought a lot of clothes," reminded Garry. "And paid some bills."
"Some," admitted Kenny.