went to the Coast, an' doubled back from Victoria. Then she hit Chicago an' mosied on to Boston. Did you trace along any o' that trail?"
"I did," acknowledged Kestner. The animosity had gone out of his voice.
"Well, I'll give you some more along the same line. From Bean-Town she sailed f'r Paris, an' from Paris she went on to Munich, an' from Munich she ambled off to Prague, an' then swung round to Milan an' then down to Rome. An' all that time she was tryin' to do decent work, kindergartenin' some mutt of a school-girl, or paintin' kid miniatures, or copyin' gallery chromos, or teachin' drawin' to a bunch o' pension dubs whose husbands started zooin' her first crack out o' the box, and gettin' in bad jus' because she had a pair o' lamps that'd make any man sit up an' take notice. She had to do all that woik wit' women. She had to."
"Why?"
"I guess you oughtta know the answer to that," retorted the girl.
"Why should I know?"
"Hully gee! Because she's stuck on you! That's why!"
"Don't say that!" Kestner cried out, revolting against the crudity of the underworld phrase, repelled by the freeness with which a thing so sacred could be tossed about.
"What's the good o' side-steppin' the truth? Didn't I see her fall for you that first time you bumped together in our Paris studio? Didn't she keep the Governor from croakin' you when he had you hipped?
