"Say it!" prodded Jimmie Dale sweetly. "Don't feel restrained because
you are a guest--I absolve you in advance."
"Rotter!" said Carruthers.
"Well," said Jimmie Dale softly. "You see--Carruthers?"
Carruthers' match crackled savagely as he lighted a cigar.
"Yes, I see," he growled. "But I don't see--you'll pardon my saying
so--how vulgarity like that ever acquired membership in the St. James
Club."
"Carruthers," said Jimmie Dale plaintively, "you ought to know better
than that. You know, to begin with, since it seems he has advertised
with you, that he runs some sort of brokerage business in Boston. He's
taken a summer home up here on Long Island, and some misguided chap put
him on the club's visitor's list. His card will NOT be renewed. Sleek
customer, isn't he? Trifle familiar--I was only introduced to him last
night."
Carruthers grunted, broke his burned match into pieces, and began to
toss the pieces into an ash tray.
Jimmie Dale became absorbed in an inspection of his hands--those
wonderful hands with long, slim, tapering fingers, whose clean, pink
flesh masked a strength and power that was like to a steel vise.
Jimmie Dale looked up. "Going to print a nice little story for him about
the 'costliest and most beautiful necklace in America'?" he inquired
innocently.
Carruthers scowled. "No," he said bluntly.
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