“Ladies and gentlemen,” Bertram announced, “I desire the privilege of introducing Teddy Murphy, California’s premier jockey, lately set down on an outrageously false charge of pulling a horse. He is here, ladies and gentlemen, to tell you his troubles!”
A moment of silent embarrassment on both sides.
“Here—take my chair, Mr. Murphy!” spoke Kate from the foot of the table. The next table, set a deux, had just become vacant. Kate slipped into its nearest chair. Bertram’s seat was back by the wall; to reach it, he must step over feet and so interrupt Mr. Murphy’s tale of wrong. Nothing was more natural than that he should take the seat opposite Kate. And instantly—he having heard the story already—Bertram lost interest. 218
“Would you mind getting my muff?” asked Kate. “I think my handkerchief is in it.”
As Bertram handed over the muff, she was smiling up at him. She did not look down until she had taken out her handkerchief, flirted out its folds. Then a little, disconcerted “oh!” escaped her.
“What is it?”
Kate was shaking out her skirt, was glancing rapidly to right and left. “Goodness!” she cried.
“What’s the matter?”
“A letter. Have you seen it?”
Bertram looked under the table. There it lay, by his chair. He picked it up and passed it over.