Mr. Pfyfe forged Mr. Benson's name to a check for ten thousand dollars?" he asked.
She hesitated, gauging the possible consequences of her answer.
"No, that isn't news. Andy tells me everything."
"And did you also know that Mr. Benson, when informed of it, was rather put out?—that, in fact, he demanded a note and a signed confession before he would pay the check?"
The woman's eyes flashed angrily.
"Yes, I knew that too.—And after all Andy had done for him! If ever a man deserved shooting, it was Alvin Benson. He was a dog. And he pretended to be Andy's best friend. Just think of it,—refusing to lend Andy the money without a confession! . . . You'd hardly call that a business deal, would you? I'd call it a dirty, contemptible, underhand trick."
She was enraged. Her mask of breeding and good-fellowship had fallen from her; and she poured out vituperation on Benson with no thought of the words she was using. Her speech was devoid of all the ordinary reticencies of intercourse between strangers.
Vance nodded consolingly during her tirade.
"Y' know, I sympathize fully with you." The tone in which he made the remark seemed to establish a closer rapprochement.
After a moment he gave her a friendly smile.
"But, after all, one could almost forgive Benson for holding the confession, if he hadn't also demanded security."
"What security?"
