Besides, you can't
refuse. Consider how lenient I've been with you."
P. Sybarite lifted questioning eyebrows, and dragged down the corners
of a dubious mouth.
"If I wanted to be nasty," Mrs. Inche explained, "you'd be on your way
now to a cell in the East Fifty-first Street station. But I was
grateful."
"The Saints be praised for that!" exclaimed the little man fervently.
"What's it for?"
"For waking me up in time to prevent my murder in my sleep," she
returned coolly; "and also for being the spunky little devil you are
and chasing off that hound of a husband of mine. If it wasn't for you,
he'd've got me sure. Or else," she amended, "I'd've got him; which
would have been almost as unpleasant--what with being pinched and
tried and having juries disagree and getting off at last only on the
plea of insanity--and all that."
"Madam," said P. Sybarite, rising, "the more I see of you, the more
you claim my admiration. I entreat you, permit me to go away before my
emotion deepens into disastrous infatuation."
"Sit down," countered Mrs. Inche amiably; "don't be afraid--I don't
bite. Now you know who I am, but before you go, I mean to know who you
are."
"Michael Monahan, madam." This was the first alliterative combination
to pop into his optimistic mind.
"Can that," retorted the lady serenely--"solder it up tight, along
with the business of pretending to be a cop.
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