"I don't think it, Arthur; I know it. I suspected it, and
then I checked up. I'll hand you one thing, son--you sure
are--what-you-call-it?--an opportunist."
"Am I?"
"You are. I'm handlin' this affair for the company that Mrs. Haley's
jools was insured in, and I've been down to N'Yawlins checkin' up. I
reckon I know more about this affair than you do."
"That's interesting."
"Ain't it? An' seein' that you've been so frank as to admit that you
done it, p'r'aps you'd like to know what I know about it myself, eh?"
"Yes."
Jim's voice, flat and expressionless, seemed to fill the expensively
furnished room.
"Startin' at the beginnin', Arthur, there was Mrs. Grover Haley,
wife of the president of the L. R. & C. Railroad. Hubby traveled
the usual route to sudden wealth--engine wiper, fireman, engineer,
superintendent. Then he made a killing in oil. They elected him
president of the road. Worth close onto twenty millions now. Lives
in Chicago. His wife--she ain't exactly one of these here sylphs. He
married her when he was a fireman. He's president of the road now, but
she's still a fireman's wife. Fightin' all the time to rise up, but not
succeedin' specially well.
"This here Mrs. Haley ain't strong on polish, but she's got the old
ambish by the tail on a downhill pull. Far as her appearance is
concerned--she ain't got any. She's sort of the same upholstery style
that I am. An' the only thing she craves in this world is society; none
of your pikin' society, either, but the genuine stuff; the kind that
even twenty millions can't buy. For seven years she's been trying to
jimmy into the real crowd, an' meetin' with about as much success as
an oyster in a hurdle race." He paused briefly. "I've got it pretty
straight so far, haven't I, Arthur?"