How many
times you've taken me out to lunch? Ten. How often you've called me on
the telephone? Eighty-nine How many times you've sent me flowers?
Twelve. How many letters you've written me? Eleven! Oh, I realize
they're typewritten, but a photograph enlargement would show they were
typed in your office. Every typewriter has its own individuality, you
know. Your clerks and office boy have heard me call you Sammy. Why,
every time you've moved with me beside you someone has seen you. That's
enough, isn't it? But now, on top of all that, you go and hand me
exactly what I need on a gold plate."
He gazed at her stupidly.
"Why, if now you don't give me that check I shall simply go up to the
Biltmore and register as Mrs. Samuel Tutt. I shall take a room and stay
there until you offer me a proper inducement to move on." She giggled
delightedly. "It's marvelous--absolutely safe," she quoted. "They can't
touch me. You'll come across inside of two hours. If you don't a word to
the reporters will start things in the right direction."
"Don't!" he groaned. "I must have been crazy. That was simply
blackmail!"
"That's exactly what it was!" she agreed. "There aren't any letters
except these typewritten ones, or photographs, or any evidence at all,
but you're going to give me five thousand dollars just the same. Just so
that your wife won't know what a silly old fool you've been. Where's
your check book, Sam?"
Tutt pulled out the bottom drawer of his desk and slowly removed his
personal check book.
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