"We don't have to—not if you agree to my seventy-thirty."
"Have you thought of a way, then?"
"Sure I've thought of a way."
Mr. Molloy's depression became more marked than ever. He knew what this meant. The moment he gave up the riddle that miserable little Chimp would come out with some scheme which had been staring him in the face all along, if only he had had the intelligence to see it.
"Well?" said Chimp. "Think quick. And remember, thirty's better than nothing. And don't say, when I've told you, that it's just the idea you've had yourself from the start."
Mr. Molloy urged his weary brain to one last spurt of activity, but without result. He was a specialist. He could sell shares in phantom oil wells better than anybody on either side of the Atlantic, but there he stopped. Outside his specialty he was almost a total loss.
"All right, Chimpie," he sighed, facing the inevitable.
"Seventy-thirty?"
"Seventy-thirty. Though how I'm to break it to the madam, I don't know. She won't like it, Chimpie. It'll be a nasty blow for the madam."
"I hope it chokes her," said Chimp, unchivalrously. "Her and her lilies! Well, then. Here's what we do. When Flannery takes the guy his coffee and eggs to-morrow, there'll be something in the pot besides coffee. There'll be some of those kayo drops of yours. And then all we have to do is just simply walk upstairs and dig the ticket out of his clothes and there we are."