"I was--I was afraid not to." He choked out the confession with the
recklessness of final despair.

"So?" she said, with another short laugh. Then she resumed her even,
tired monotone: "Your little friend Cooley's note this morning gave us
all a rather fair notion as to what you must be thinkin' of us. He seems
to have found a sort of walkin' 'Who's-Who-on-the-Continent' since last
night. Pity for some people he didn't find it before! I don't think I'm
sympathetic with your little Cooley. I 'guess,' as you Yankees say, 'he
can stand it.' But"--her voice suddenly became louder--"I'm not in the
business of robbin' babies and orphans, no, my dear friends, nor of
helpin' anybody else to rob them either!--Here you are!"

She thrust into his hand a small packet, securely wrapped in paper and
fastened with rubber bands. "There's your block of express checks for
six hundred dollars and your I O U to Sneyd with it. Take better care of
it next time."

He had been tremulous enough, but at that his whole body began to shake
violently.

"_What_!" he quavered.

"I say, take better care of it next time," she said, dropping again into
her monotone. "I didn't have such an easy time gettin' it back from them
as you might think. I've got rather a sore wrist, in fact."

She paused at an inarticulate sound from him.