"I'm not, Miss. My story's true." Eyes clear as the Arizona sky in a face brown as the Arizona desert looked straight at her.
Annie Millikan had never seen a man like this before, so clean and straight and good to look at. From childhood she had been brought up on the fringe of that underworld the atmosphere of which is miasmic. She was impressed in spite of herself.
"Say, why don't you go into the movies and be one of these here screen ideals? You'd knock 'em dead," she advised flippantly, crossing her bare ankles.
Clay laughed. He liked the insolent little twist to her mouth. She made one strong appeal to him. This bit of a girl, so slim that he could break her in his hands, was game to the core. He recognized it as a quality of kinship.
"This is my busy night. When I've got more time I'll think of it.
Right now—"
She took the subject out of his mouth. "Listen, how do you know the girl ain't a badger-worker?"
"You'll have to set 'em up on the other alley, Miss," the Westerner said. "I don't get yore meanin'."
"Couldn't she 'a' made this date to shake you down? Blackmail stuff."
"No chance. She's not that kind."
"Mebbe you're right. I meet so many hop-nuts and dips and con guys and gun-molls that I get to thinkin' there's no decent folks left," she said with a touch of weariness.