“Yes,” she replied in a cool voice, not raising her head. Then she set the percolator aside and came to the door. She blushed and her eyes were large and moist and chiding. “You shouldn’t have done that to me, Sam,” she said softly.
“I had to find out, angel.” He bent down, kissed her mouth lightly, and returned to the living-room.
Gutman smiled at Spade and offered him the white envelope, saying: “This will soon be yours; you might as well take it now.”
Spade did not take it. He sat in the armchair and said: “There’s plenty of time for that. We haven’t done enough talking about the money-end. I ought to have more than ten thousand.”
Gutman said: “Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money.”
Spade said: “You’re quoting me, but it’s not all the money in the world.”
“No, sir, it’s not. I grant you that. But it’s a lot of money to be picked up in as few days and as easily as you’re getting it.”
“You think it’s been so damned easy?” Spade asked, and shrugged. “Well, maybe, but that’s my business.”
“It certainly is,” the fat man agreed. He screwed up his eyes, moved his head to indicate the kitchen, and lowered his voice. “Are you sharing with her?”
Spade said: “That’s my business too.”
“It certainly is,” the fat man agreed once more, “but”—he hesitated—“I’d like to give you a word of advice.”
“Go ahead.”