“Well?” she drew back and looked at him in dawning comprehension. “Are you drunk?”
“No; I never touch liquor.” He slipped his hand inside his tightly buttoned coat and drew out a woman’s silk scarf and held it just beyond her reach.
“Where did you get that?” she cried.
“Where ye dropped it the morning of Mr. Paul’s murder.” As he spoke he shook out the scarf. “The blood’s still on it,” and he leered at her as she raised her eyes and looked at him. It was some seconds before she spoke, and her voice was not quite natural.
“Well, what’s your price?” she asked.
Corbin licked his lips. “How much ye got with ye?” he demanded.
From an inside pocket she drew out a bill folder containing “A.B.A.” travelers’ checks. Only one was left, but tucked behind it were two yellow-back Treasury notes.
“I can give you a check for fifty dollars or these two twenty-dollar bills,” she explained.
“I’ll take the money—on account.”
The look she gave him was expressive of her feelings, but wasted on Corbin. “Very well,” she said. “Hand me the scarf.”