“I don’t know whether it’s gas in my case or not,” Dicky said, “but the fact is I am not rightly aboard this conversation.”
“The idea is to get aboard with some American currency,” said Ames. “American in trouble—fellows all willing to help a little. Up to somebody to get the fool out. Father picked on me——”
“Let me get this straight,” Dicky heard himself saying, though all he wanted under heaven at this moment was to be alone.
Ames was one of the best Washington correspondents in the American press, a fact-getter extraordinary, who had a semi-inspired way now and then of putting down his stuff. He was fifty, a friend of John Higgins and weathered to a fuzzy gray like a fence board. Just now he bluffed out his embarrassment by speaking of one of Melton’s stories which Dicky was professionally familiar with:
“A short story in one of the weeklies—called Dr. Filter—hell of a good story.... It’s nothing to me,” Ames finished. “Only the kid’s an American, and he’s tight up against one of Paris’ prettiest ways.”
Haddon took up the tale:
“The Frenchman’s name is Ducier. Melton’s been living at his house—mixed with the daughter—forced to marry. Now Parent Ducier says the least he can do is to get a living for himself out of it—hard times.”
“Actually married?” Dicky asked.
“Showed me the passport,” said Ames. “I couldn’t get a word alone with Melton. He can’t leave his bed. One of the family always in the room.”
Dicky was straining so hard that he resisted easy comprehension. It was an intense moment. There was more talk.