Carruthers laughed--and then glanced ludicrously at Jimmie Dale, as the
door, ajar, was pushed open, and a man entered.
"Speaking of angels," murmured Jimmie Dale--and sat up in his chair.
"Hello, Markel!" he observed casually, "You've met Carruthers, of the
NEWS-ARGUS, haven't you?"
Markel was fat and important; he had beady black eyes, fastidiously
trimmed whiskers--and a pronounced smirk.
Markel blew his nose vigorously, coughed asthmatically, and held out his
hand.
"Of course, certainly," said he effusively. "I've met Carruthers several
times--used his sheet more than once to advertise a new bond flotation."
The dominant note in Markel's voice was an ingratiating and unpleasant
whine, and Carruthers nodded, not very cordially--and shook hands.
Markel went back to the door, closed it carefully, and returned to the
table.
"Fact is," he smiled confidentially, "I saw you two come in here a few
minutes ago, and I've got something that I thought Carruthers might be
glad to have for his society column--say, in the Sunday edition."
He dove into the inside pocket of his coat, produced a large morocco
leather jeweller's case, and, holding it out over the table between
Carruthers and Jimmie Dale, suddenly snapped the cover open--and then,
with a complacent little chuckle that terminated in another fit of
coughing, spilled the contents on the table under the electric reading
lamp.
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