McCutcheon, George Barr, 1866-1928 / 2008-07-05 00:00:00
Ten minutes passed. The group in the hall conversed in whispers.
"Why did she put the window down?" asked the wife of the inn-keeper,
crossing herself.
Drake shook his head. "I wonder what she is saying to him," he
muttered.
"A wonderful nerve," said Dr. Sheef. "Positively wonderful. I've
never seen anything like it."
"Her own husband, too," said Mrs. Burton. "Why, I--I should have
said she'd go into hysterics. Such a handsome man he was."
"I guess, from what I've heard of this fellow, Wrandall, he's not
been an angel," volunteered the sheriff.
Drake shook his head once more.
"He ain't one now, I'll bet on that," said the man who stood guard.
"He's in hell if ever a man--"
"Sh!" whispered the woman in horror. "God forgive you for uttering
words like that!"
"Every one in the city knows what sort of a man he's been," said
Drake.
He comes of a fine family," said the coroner. "One of the best in
New York. I guess he's never been much of a credit to it, however."
"They say he ran after chorus girls," said Mrs. Burton. The men
grinned.
"I've an idea she's had the devil's own time with him," mused the
sheriff, with a jerk of his head in the direction of the door.
"Poor thing," said the inn-keeper's wife.
"Well," said Drake, taking a deep breath, "she won't have to worry
any more about his not coming home nights.
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