“What are you doing, living here?” asked Mr. Cootes after a pregnant pause. “Have you retired?”
“No, sir. I’m sitting in at a game with real worthwhile stakes. But, darn it,” said Miss Peavey regretfully, “I’m wondering if it isn’t too big for me to put through alone. Oh, Eddie, if only there was some way you and me could work it together like in the old days.”
“What is it?”
“Diamonds, Eddie. A necklace. I’ve only had one look at it so far, but that was enough. Some of the best ice I’ve saw in years, Ed. Worth every cent of a hundred thousand berries.”
The coincidence drew from Mr. Cootes a sharp exclamation.
“A necklace!”
“Listen, Ed, while I slip you the low-down. And, say, if you knew the relief it was to me talking good United States again! Like taking off a pair of tight shoes. I’m doing the high-toned stuff for the moment. Soulful. You remember, like I used to pull once or twice in the old days. Just after you and me had that little spat of ours I thought I’d take another trip in the old Atlantic—force of habit or something, I guess. Anyway, I sailed, and we weren’t two days out from New York when I made the biggest kind of a hit with the dame this necklace belongs to. Seemed to take a shine to me right away . . .”
“I don’t blame her!” murmured Mr. Cootes devotedly.
“Now don’t you interrupt,” said Miss Peavey, administering a gratified slap. “Where was I? Oh yes. This here now Lady Constance Keeble I’m telling you about . . .”
“What!”