“Yes, I saw you beat her up. Why don’t you let ’em alone? You’ll kill one of them some of these days.”
“Naw, not her. I mean the letter. Mary Randall—she says she’s going to close us.” A waiter recovered the letter and brought it to Druce. He read it.
“Say, listen, are you turning yellow—”
“No, I ain’t yellow,” returned Anson, “but this thing is getting my goat. You’re sure about that lease?”
“Sure?—say, I thought we’d settled that—”
“Well,” pursued Anson, “I don’t like this. What have you done with this other girl—the one you married? She’ll be getting us into a row next.”
“I married her, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but—”
“Well, it’s about time she started earning her bread. This Randall woman hasn’t got me scared. You know why I married her. Well, I’m going through with it. I—”
The rest of his sentence died on his lips. A girl scarcely more than a child came in from the hotel entrance. She was dressed in a lacey gown, a size too large for her. The slit skirt displayed her slim ankles in pink silk stockings. The French heeled shoes were decorated with rhinestone buckles. In spite of this outrageous dress she was still pretty. It was Elsie Welcome.