“I tell you. Letters quite innocent but polite they have in possession–––”
“Blackmail, by heck!”
“I must be considerate of Sondheim.”
“Or he’ll squeal on you. Is that it?”
Puma’s black eyes were flaring up again; the heavy colour stained his face.
“Me, I am–––”
“All right. Sondheim’s got something on you, then. Has he?”
“It is nothing. Yet, it has embarrass me–––”
“That ratty kike! I get you, Angy. You were played. Or maybe you did some playing too. Aw! wait!”––as Puma protested––“I’m getting you, by gobs. Sure. And you’re rich, now, and business is pretty good, and you wish Sondheim would let you alone.”
“Yes, surely.”