“Yes, I know it! I didn’t have anything in it—or any other bank for that matter,” he admitted ruefully, “but I hate to see the old thing go to smash.”
Dale wondered which angle was best from which to present her appeal.
“Well, even if you haven’t lost anything in this bank failure, a lot of your friends have—surely?” she went on.
“I’ll say so!” said Fleming, debonairly. “Beresford is sitting down the road in his Packard now writhing with pain!”
Dale hesitated; Fleming’s lightness seemed so incorrigible that, for a moment, she was on the verge of giving her project up entirely. Then, Waster or not—he’s the only man who can help us! she told herself and continued.
“Lots of awfully poor people are going to suffer, too,” she said wistfully.
Fleming chuckled, dismissing the poor with a wave of his hand.
“Oh, well, the poor are always in trouble,” he said with airy heartlessness. “They specialize in suffering.”
He extracted a monogrammed cigarette from a thin gold case.
“But look here,” he went on, moving closer to Dale, “you didn’t send for me to discuss this hypothetical poor depositor, did you? Mind if I smoke?”