“But the autograph market is looking up. I'll take a chanst and give you twenty-five. Cash,” he added impressively.
“No,” repeated Mr. Boggs.
“What's the matter with you?” demanded Schepstein with rising truculence. “D' you wan ta sell or don't cha? What's your price?”
“Eighteen hundred and forty-five dollars and fifty cents,” said Mr. Boggs in a clear, businesslike soprano.
Schepstein did not sneer, nor explode, nor curse, nor do any of the things which I confidently expected him to do. His convergent vision seemed to focus on the buff envelope in Mr. Boggs's lumpy hand. He looked thoughtful, and, it seemed to me, almost respectful. “As she stands?” he asks.
“As she stands,” assented Mr. Boggs. “Bought,” said Schepstein. And he wrote out a check to “Bearer.”
At this the Little Red Doctor lost his head and profoundly altered the situation. “By thunder!” he cried, “Madam Tal-lafferr knew what she was talking about all the time.”
Schepstein dropped his pen. “Who?” he asked in a rasping voice.
“Madam Tallafferr, across Our Square in Seventeen.”
“Was that her letter?”