"I have a feeling we're getting into something beyond our depth."
"Okay, then let me handle it. I'll see that you get your cut."
"Not so fast," Corson said sharply. "I didn't say I was backing out. I just said this might be bigger than we bargain for."
"I don't think that's quite it," King replied coldly. "I think you don't trust me."
"Maybe that's it. I don't think you trust me, either."
"Ten thousand is a lot of money. But we're not going to get it by sitting in a coffee shop arguing over it."
"I guess you're right."
"Then let's go."
They left the coffee shop and, as they walked the four blocks that separated them from the room where he was ashamed to take Rhoda Kane, Frank Corson analyzed his own mood and attitude. He decided it wasn't that he mistrusted King, or that he actually thought the deal had any frightening elements in it. In plain truth, he was ashamed of himself. Somehow, in his own mind, he was degrading his profession. His love of Rhoda Kane, his need of money, his impatience with time and circumstance, had forced him into what seemed like a cheap intrigue. There was, somehow, a bad taste to the whole thing.
But it was too late to back out now. And what the hell! If there was ten thousand dollars lying around, why shouldn't he get a piece of it? What was wrong with that? He unlocked the door to his room.