"Do I look as if I had? She's sick, got a cough, and says it's the 'con.' She wants to come home."
Jim started. "Say, that's no hospital bark of hers; it's nothing but the coke." After a moment he asked casually, "Where's she stopping?"
"Liverpool."
"What's her address? I'll drop her a line to cheer her up."
"She wrote from the Hotel—" Melcher checked himself and shot a questioning look at his friend. "Why this sudden charity?"
Jim's gaze was bland, his tone one of wounded innocence. "Can't a guy offer to cheer—"
"You're not in the business of cheering sick dames," Melcher said, sharply. Then, after a pause, "You never came through with me, Jim. There was something phony about Lilas's get-away. She left too suddenly after the Hammon suicide, and she's been under cover now for eight months. I never got it quite right. What're you holding out?"
Jim sparred adroitly, but without effect.
"Oh! You've got an ace buried somewhere," Melcher said. "You're a shifty guy. Of course this is a friendly game we're playing, but, just the same, I never bettered a poker hand by leaving the room. I don't even turn my head to spit when I'm sitting in with a fellow like you. Lilas has got something on her mind, and I believe I'll cable her the price of a ticket."
That was enough for Jim. He began to weaken, and at last made a clean breast of all the circumstances surrounding Jarvis Hammon's death rather than risk the result of a meeting between Max and Lilas. When he had finished his story Melcher was leaning forward, his pink, smooth-shaven, agreeable face gravely intent.