“Look here,” he said; “I promised you something once, didn't I?”
“Did you?” said Plank, with his bland, expressionless stare of an overgrown baby.
“Oh, cut that out! You know damn well I did; and when I say a thing I make good. D'ye see?”
“I don't see,” said Plank, “what you are talking about.”
“I'm talking about what I said I'd do for you. Haven't I made good? Haven't I put you into everything I said I would? Don't you go everywhere? Don't people ask you everywhere?”
“Yes—in a way,” said Plank wearily. “I am very grateful; I always will be.... Can I do anything for you, Leroy?”
Mortimer became indignant at the implied distrust of the purity of his motives; and Plank, failing to stem the maudlin tirade, relapsed into patient silence, speculating within himself as to what it could be that Mortimer wanted.
It came out presently. Mortimer had attended a “killing” at Desmond's, and, as usual, had provided the pièce de résistance for his soft-voiced host. All he wanted was a temporary deposit to tide over matters. He had never approached Plank in vain, and he did not do so now, for Plank had a pocket cheque-book and a stylograph.
“It's damn little to ask, isn't it?” he muttered resentfully. “That will only square matters with Desmond; it doesn't leave me anything to go on with,” and he pocketed his cheque with a scowl.
Plank was discreetly silent.