Page:Arthur Stringer--The House of Intrigue.djvu/18

8 "What is Mrs. Locke's opinion of that?" I asked, trying hard to swallow the sudden choke in my throat. But that choke couldn't be swallowed, for instead of being in my neck, it was somewhere in my heart. I didn't want to laugh. But I made myself, for I knew that if I didn't laugh I'd be crying like a baby and covering a perfectly good blue serge waist-front with spots.

There weren't many people, I knew, could afford to laugh at Big Ben Locke. I wasn't ignorant of what it would cost me, for the same hand that had wielded that uncouth pogamoggan was also the hand that doled out the wampum. I could see what was coming. But I didn't care any longer. The pressure was more than I could stand. So I let the gates swing open and the flood go tumbling out. I simply blew up, as poor old Bud Griswold would have phrased it.

"Listen to me," I said, as I faced the master of that office. "You may be a great detective, and you may control the pay envelope of a couple of hundred people, but until you're man enough to know the difference between decency and indecency you're never going to keep one kind of woman on your pay-list. And I'm that kind. Until you're able to detect the difference between a girl who's—"