held more coquetry than anything else. She came over to me, walking with an exaggerated swing of the hips, and stood close in front of me.
“What’s on your mind?” I asked.
“Suppose—suppose a person knew something that nobody else knew; what would it be worth to them?”
“That,” I stalled, “would depend on how valuable it was.”
“Suppose I knew who killed the boss?” She bent her face close down to mine, and spoke in a husky whisper. “What would that be worth?”
“The newspapers say that one of Gilmore’s clubs has offered a thousand-dollar reward. You’d get that.”
Her green eyes went greedy, and then suspicious.
“If you didn’t.”
I shrugged. I knew she’d go through with it—whatever it was—now; so I didn’t even explain to her that the Continental doesn’t touch rewards, and doesn’t let its hired men touch them.
“I’ll give you my word,” I said; “but you’ll have to use your own judgment about trusting me.”
She licked her lips.
“You’re a good fellow, I guess. I wouldn’t tell the police, because I know they’d beat me out of the money. But you look like I can trust you.” She leered into my face. “I used to have a gentleman friend who was the very image of you, and he was the grandest—”
“Better speak your piece before somebody comes in,” I suggested.