“Yes. We are acting as her agents.”
“Ah, hell!” said Schepstein softly. Then an astounding thing happened. Two small, pinched tears welled out from the ill-matched points of flint which serve Schepstein for eyes. They were followed by two more. The little, gnarly, cross-grained Jew drooped over the desk and his shoulders shook. A voice of falsetto anguish roused him.
“Don't cry on the check! You'll smudge it.”
Schepstein lifted his head and gloomed at Boggs. “Nevamind that; it's all off,” he gulped. “I got something to tell you people.”
Between queer, shamed breath-catch-ings, he told us about his Metta's funeral. At the end he read us a telegram from Quentin Olds. When I was able to assimilate its full meaning, I found myself shaking hands with Schepstein, while Mr. Boggs danced a jig with the Little Red Doctor. Then. Schepstein tore up the check for $1845.50 and invited us around to the Elite Restaurant to luncheon, thereby affording a sensational titbit of news for Polyglot Elsa's relating for a fortnight after. “Mr. Schepstein, he paid the whole compte. Was kennst du about that!” Three days were required to finish the deal. Then through Old Sally the deputation trio sought and obtained another audience from the Duchess. Mr. Boggs did the talking in terms worthy of his environment. “We have successfully terminated the negotiations, Madame Tallafferr,” he began.
The Duchess bowed in silent dignity.
“And I have now the honor of turning over to you eighteen hundred and forty-five dollars and fifty cents, as—”