wonder you feel raw. I wouldn't say that sort of thing to a guy's face.
Sure, no. Tact's my middle name. But, since you have heard it, well--!"

"Don't apologize. You were quite right. I was a fool not to see it
before. No description could have been fairer. You might have said much
more. You might have added that I was nothing more than a steerer for a
gambling hell."

"Oh, come, Prince!"

There was a knock at the door. A footman entered, bearing, with a
detached air, as if he disclaimed all responsibility, a letter on a
silver tray.

Mr. Scobell slit the envelope, and began to read. As he did so his eyes
grew round, and his mouth slowly opened till his cigar stump, after
hanging for a moment from his lower lip, dropped off like an exhausted
bivalve and rolled along the carpet.

"Prince," he gasped, "she's gone. Betty!"

"Gone! What do you mean?"

"She's beaten it. She's half-way to Marseilles by now. Gee, and I saw
the darned boat going out!"

"She's gone!"

"This is from her. Listen what she says: