"I dunno where she is," said the Flopper, with some reluctance. "She
ain't back yet, dat's all."

"Back from where?"--Madison's grip tightened.

The Flopper blinked.

"Aw, wot's de use!" he blurted out, as though his mind, suddenly made
up, brought him unbounded relief. "Youse'll find it out anyhow. Say, she
went off wid Thornton in de buzz-wagon yesterday, an' I put de Patriarch
to bed last night 'cause she wasn't back, an' dat's wot's de matter wid
him, she ain't showed up since an' he's near off his chump, an'--fer
God's sake let go my arm, Doc, youse're breakin' it!"

A sort of cold frenzy seemed to seize Madison. He was perfectly calm, he
felt himself perfectly calm and composed. Off all night with
Thornton--eh? Funny, wasn't it? She'd gone pretty far at last--gone the
limit.

"Why didn't you send me word this morning?"--was that his own voice
speaking? Well, he wouldn't have recognized it--but he was perfectly
calm nevertheless.

"Fer God's sake let go my arm," whimpered the Flopper. "I--I ain't no
squealer, dat's why."

Madison's arm fell away--to his side. He felt a whiteness creeping to
his face and lips, felt his lips twitch, felt the fingers of his hands
curl in and the nails begin to press into the palms.