then--dress her up in an evening
confection that leaves little to the imagination in front and--and
ground for amazement in back. That's a fair starter. If you care to
be analytical you can insist that the reason she dresses like that
is--oh, just because she's so innocent that she doesn't know any
better, eh!

"All right! That establishes her very well. And then we can do just
what you planned to do with your dear lady. We'll run her through
three or four hundred pages, but with just a trifling change or two.
Every chapter or so I'd leave her, Joe, in a situation that ends with a
gasp--no pause even for a caramel! Three or four hundred pages, and
then, if you have to marry her off why, let's be honest about it--no?
Marry her off to the sort of a chap whom you'd man-handle to a pulp,
Joe, if he came near--say a sister of yours. A nice, white-skinned,
red-lipped, sweet, innocent sort of a little girl, Joe--and--and that
finish will keep her true to type!"

At the beginning Fat Joe had been all eager attention. His face became
heavy with amazement long before Garry's hard voice was still.

"But--but that ain't the kind of a yarn I'm figurin' on," he argued,
his high voice faint but dogged. "This ain't going to be any of that
tabasco stuff. Nope, I like it better the way I've got it planned.
It--it leaves a better taste in your mouth, too."

Again Garry laughed, to himself it seemed, this time.

"Have your own way," he muttered. "But if you're going to stick to it
you'd better label it a romance! Because there's only one kind of a
woman, Joe, in reality. Just the kind who's killed what used to be a
demand for decent men."

And then, outside in the dark, Stephen O'Mara forgot how sick the other
man had been. He was across the threshold in a single stride, and Fat
Joe came lightly to his feet as he saw his chief's set face that night.
It wiped, the smile from Garry's lips, too. Squarely in front of the
latter Steve halted and spoke with monotonous lack of haste.

"You're going to tell me that you didn't mean that, Garry," he said
quietly. "For I'm going to marry one of those women myself."

Garret Devereau's face had been white. It went whiter now. He too
came squarely to his feet, his body stiff but very frail in the
oversize garments from Steve's wardrobe which he was wearing. He stood
and stared emptily into his friend's eyes until something close akin to
dreary defiance rose and marked his nu