it and slipped it slowly into her hand-bag. Her expression was the same she had worn when she entered Rooney’s that night—she looked upon the world with defiance, suspicion and sullen wonder.
“I guess I might as well say good-by here,” she said dully. “You won’t want to see me again, of course. Will you—shake hands—Mr. McManus.”
“I mightn’t have got wise if you hadn’t give the snap away,” said Cork. “Why did you do it?”
“You’d have been pinched if I hadn’t. That’s why. Ain’t that reason enough?” Then she began to cry. “Honest, Eddie, I was goin’ to be the best girl in the world. I hated to be what I am; I hated men; I was ready almost to die when I saw you. And you seemed different from everybody else. And when I found you liked me, too, why, I thought I’d make you believe I was good, and I was goin’ to be good. When you asked to come to my house and see me, why, I’d have died rather than do anything wrong after that. But what’s the use of talking about it? I’ll say good-by, if you will, Mr. McManus.”
Cork was pulling at his car. “I knifed Malone,” said he. “I was the one the cop wanted.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said the girl listlessly. “It didn’t make any difference about that.”
“That was all hot air about Wall Street. I don’t do nothin’ but hang out with a tough gang on the East Side.”
