“Mrs. Pennycook, ma'am.”
She tilted her nose and glanced at him scornfully, but did not stop.
“It's about Joe” the gambler called after her.
If he had struck her she could not have stopped more quickly. She turned, facing him, her chin trembling.
“I thought you'd stop” he assured her. “Nothin' like shakin' the bones of a family skeleton to bring down the mighty from their perch. Bless you, Mrs. Pennycook, this thing o' bein' respectable must be hard on the constitution. Havin' been low an' worthless all my life, I suppose I can't really appreciate what it means to a respectable lady with a angelic relative like your brother.”
The drawling words fell on the gossip like a rain of blows. Her eyelids grew suddenly red and watery.
“It ain't a man's trick to hammer you like this, Mrs. Pennycook,” the gambler continued, almost sadly, “but for a lady that's livin' in a glass house, you're too fond o' chuckin' stones, an' it's got to stop. Hereafter, if you've got somethin' to say about Donna Corblay you see that it's somethin' nice. You gabbed about her mother when she was alive, and the minute I saw you streakin' it over to Miss Pickett I knew you were at it again. Now you do any more mud-slingin', Mrs. Pennycook, and I'll tell San Pasqual about that thug of a brother o' yours. He's out o' San Quentin.”
“But his time wasn't up, Mr. Hennage,” wailed Mrs. Pennycook. “He got fifteen years.”
“He served half of it and was paroled.”
Mrs. Pennycook bowed her head and quivered. “Then he'll be around here again, blackmailing poor Dan an' me out of our savings.” She commenced to cry.