“Or a woman,” he suggested feebly.
“Quite right. Few woman have a sense of sportsmanship.”
“You have.”
“How do you know?”
“The witness declines to answer, on the ground that he might incriminate himself; also I object to the question because it is irrelevant, immaterial, and not cross-examination.”
“Accepted. You stand a very good chance of becoming a millionaire in Sobrante, but you must beware of a dark man who has crossed your path——”
“Which one?” Webster queried mirthfully. “All coons look alike to me—Greasers also.”
“Mere patter of our profession, Mr. Webster,” she admitted, “tossed in to build up the mystery element and simulate wisdom. Fortune awaited you in the United States, but you put it behind you, at the call of friendship, for a fortune in Sobrante. Now you have reconsidered that foolish action and at this moment you are contemplating sending a cablegram to a fat old man who waddles when he walks, recalling your decision not to accept a certain proposition of a business nature. However, you are too late. The fat old man with the waddle has made other arrangements, and if you want to make money, you'll remain in Sobrante. I think that is all, Mr. Webster.” He was gazing at her with an expression composed of equal parts of awe, amazement, consternation, adoration, and blank stupidity.
“Well,” she queried innocently, “to quote Billy's colloquial style: did I put it over?”
“You did very well for an amateur, but I'm a doubting Thomas. I have to poke my finger into the wound, so to speak, before I'll believe. About this fat old man who waddles when he walks: a really topnotch palmist could tell me his name.”