She rose from the settee and held herself straight in front of him though her knees were trembling, and she held her white panic-stricken face up high though she couldn’t hold the twitching muscles of mouth and chin still. She said: “You’ve been patient. You’ve tried to help me. It is hopeless, and useless, I suppose.” She stretched out her right hand. “I thank you for what you have done. I—I’ll have to take my chances.”
Spade made the growling animal noise in his throat again and sat down on the settee. “How much money have you got?” he asked.
The question startled her. Then she pinched her lower lip between her teeth and answered reluctantly: “I’ve about five hundred dollars left.”
“Give it to me.”
She hesitated, looking timidly at him. He made angry gestures with mouth, eyebrows, hands, and shoulders. She went into her bedroom, returning almost immediately with a sheaf of paper money in one hand.
He took the money from her, counted it, and said: “There’s only four hundred here.”
“I had to keep some to live on,” she explained meekly, putting a hand to her breast.
“Can’t you get any more?”
“No.”
“You must have something you can raise money on,” he insisted.
“I’ve some rings, a little jewelry.”
“You’ll have to hock them,” he said, and held out his hand. “The Remedial’s the best place—Mission and Fifth.”