"It looks good to me," said Mr. Waudle more cheerfully. "It sounds all right. You threw us down; it's up to you to pick us up."
"I see," she said pleasantly. "And unless I do you are intending to publish that—story?"
"Sure as hell!" he nodded.
She remained silent and thoughtful so long that he began to hitch about in his chair and cast furtive, sidelong glances at her and at the curtained walls around the room. Suddenly his face grew ghastly.
"Look here!" he whispered hoarsely. "Is this a plant?"
"What?"
"Is there anybody else in this room?" He lurched to his feet and waddled hastily around the four walls, flinging aside the green velvet curtains. Only the concealed pictures were revealed; and he went back to his chair, removing the cold sweat from his forehead and face with his sleeve.
"By God!" he said. "For a moment I thought you had done me good and plenty. But it wouldn't have helped you! They've got this story in the office, and the minute I'm pinched, in it goes! Understand?"
"No," she said serenely, "but it doesn't really matter. You may go now, Mr. Waudle."
"Hey?"