Beekman looked at her and blinked queerly. He brought his fist down smartly among the jangling glasses.
"It's a rotten shame!" he said. "A dirty, rotten shame! Why, don't you know that that yid who got you into this makes a business of such things? Don't you know there's a whole army of them that do? I wish to the Lord I could do something, but there isn't a policeman or a magistrate in the city who'd listen to me—they know too well where they get the jam for their bread and butter—and I can't get a job for even myself, let alone you!"
She had not, however, heard his last sentence. Her blue eyes wide, she was hanging on his reference to Max.
"A business?" she repeated. "Do you mean that men make money—that way?"
"Of course I do." The film passed suddenly from Beekman's eyes, leaving them alert with purpose. "Look here," he said, "there is one thing I can do, and I don't know anything that I'd enjoy more: you give me that little kyke's name, and I'll push his face out of the back of his head!"
Then there happened a strange thing. She had long guessed and now she knew, but guessing or knowing, she would not believe. As much for her own sanity as for Max's safety, she lied.
"The name he gave me," she said, "wasn't his right one. It wasn't even one he mostly used. And I never knew no other."
Beekman raised his hands in more than mock despair, and got up to go.
"Well," he declared, "I don't know what I can do for you. If I got into any scandal, it would punch the last hole in my meal-ticket."
Violet, who was becoming accustomed to such replies, smiled kindly.