Robert Albury, the young assistant cashier of the First National Bank, was sitting in the lobby when I returned to the Great Western Hotel. We went up to my room, had some ice-water brought, used its ice to put chill in Scotch, lemon juice, and grenadine, and then went down to the dining room.
“Now tell me about the lady,” I said when we were working on the soup.
“Have you seen her yet?” he asked.
“Not yet.”
“But you’ve heard something about her?”
“Only that she’s an expert in her line.”
“She is,” he agreed. “I suppose you’ll see her. You’ll be disappointed at first. Then, without being able to say how or when it happened, you’ll find you’ve forgotten your disappointment, and the first thing you know you’ll be telling her your life’s history, and all your troubles and hopes.” He laughed with boyish shyness. “And then you’re caught, absolutely caught.”
“Thanks for the warning. How’d you come by the information?”
He grinned shamefacedly across his suspended soup spoon and confessed:
“I bought it.”
“Then I suppose it cost you plenty. I hear she likes dinero.”
“She’s money-mad, all right, but somehow you don’t mind it. She’s so thoroughly mercenary, so frankly greedy, that there’s nothing disagreeable about it. You’ll understand what I mean when you know her.”