“Russell called me at the farm about two—Dad went down with me.—We talked to the manager—We bribed him.—Russell gave the hotel detective a check for a thousand dollars—”
“I guess they’ll keep their mouths shut,” said Bernamer, “Told ’em they’d each get another check in six months if we didn’t hear nothin’.—Now it ain’t so bad, bud. Margot says this feller can get a divorce from Cora Boyle—He was gone and we didn’t see him. It might be worse.”
“Stop hittin’ your leg, Gurd. You’ll hurt yourself,” said Mark.
He rose and began to walk up and down the tiles of the hearth. One of his hands patted the front of his coat. His face was empty. He seemed wonderfully thin. Olive watched him in terror of a cry. Gurdy and his father drew off against the shelves of still books. Bernamer commenced rolling a cigarette. After a while Mark said, “It’s the way I was brought up, Olive.”
“Oh, Mark, try to—to see her point of view. She loved him. She sees something we don’t—It’s—”
“Sure. That’s so.—Oh, you’re right.”
He walked on, aware of them watching, helpless. Things passed and turned in his head. He was being silly, old-fashioned. Ought to collect himself. Ought to do something for Gurdy who wouldn’t have her, now. Get the boy something to do. Get his mind off it. “Call the office, sonny. Tell them to close ‘Todgers Intrudes.’ Give the company two weeks’ pay. Have Hamlin write checks—Didn’t try to thrash this Rand, did you?”
“We didn’t see him. He’d gone.”
“That’s good. Call the office.”
The boy went to the telephone, far off on its desk and began to talk evenly. Mark stumbled over to Bernamer and mumbled, “Keep him busy. Awful jolt for him, Eddie. Takes it fine.”