"But, Soapy...."
"Now what?"
"I've been thinking. Listen, Soapy. A home like this one where we're going is sure to have all sorts of things in it, isn't it? Pictures, I mean, and silver and antiques and all like that. Well, why can't we, once we're in the place, get away with them and make a nice clean-up?"
Mr. Molloy, though conceding that this was the right spirit, was obliged to discourage his wife's pretty enthusiasm.
"Where could you sell that sort of stuff?"
"Anywhere, once you got it over to the other side. New York's full of rich millionaires who'll buy anything and ask no questions, just so long as it's antiques."
Mr. Molloy shook his head.
"Too dangerous, baby. If all that stuff left the house same time as we did, we'd have the bulls after us in ten minutes. Besides, it's not in my line. I've got my line, and I like to stick to it. Nobody ever got anywhere in the long run by going outside of his line."
"Maybe you're right."
"Sure I'm right. A nice conservative business, that's what I aim at."