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"You've been patient. You've tried to help me. It ishopeless, and useless, I suppose." She stretched out her right hand. "I thank you for what you have done. I-I'll have to take mny chances."
    Spade made the growling animal noise in his throat again and sat down on the settee. "How much money have you got?" he asked.
    The question startled her. Then she pinched her lower lip between her teeth and answered reluctantly: "I've about five hundred dollars left."
    "Give it to me."
    She hesitated, looking timidly at him. He made angry gestures with mouth, eyebrows, hands, and shoulders. She went into her bedroom, returning almost immediately with a sheaf of paper money in one hand. He took the money from her, counted it, and said: "There's only four hundred here."
    "I had to keep some to live on," she explained meekly, putting a hand to her breast.
    "Can't you get any more?"
    "No."
    "You must have something you can raise money on," he insisted.
    "I've some rings, a little jewelry."
    "You'll have to hock them," he said, and held out his hand. "The Remedial's the best place-Mission and Fifth."
    She looked pleadingly at him. His yellow-grey eyes were hard and implacable. Slowly she put her hand inside the neck of her dress, brought out a slender roll of bills, and put them in his waiting hand. He smoothed the bills out and counted them-four twenties, four tens, and a five. He returned two of the tens and the five to her. The others he put in his pocket. Then he stood up and said: "I'm going out and see what I can do for you. I'll be back as soon as I can with the best news I can manage. I'll ring four times-long, short, long, short-so you'll know it's me. You needn't go to the door with me. I can let myself out."
    He left her standing in the center of the floor looking after him with dazed blue eyes.
    Spade went into a reception-room whose door bore the legend _Wise, Merican Wise_. The red-haired girl at the switchboard said: "Oh, hello, Mr. Spade."
    "Hello, darling," he replied. "Is Sid in?"
    He stood beside her with a hand on her plump shoulder while she manipulated a plug and spoke into the mouthpiece: "Mr. Spade to see you, Mr. Wise." She looked up at Spade. "Go right in."
    He squeezed her shoulder by way of acknowledgment, crossed the reception-room to a dully lighted inner corridor, and passed down the corridor to a frosted glass door at its far end. He opened the frosted glass door and went into an office where a small olive-skinned man with a tired oval face under thin dark hair dotted with dandruff sat behind an immense desk on which bales of paper were heaped. The small man flourished a cold cigar-stub at Spade and said: "Pull a chair around. So Miles got the big one last night?" Neither his tired face nor his rather shrill voice held any emotion.
    "Uh-huh, that's what I came in about." Spade frowned and cleared his throat. "I think I'm going to have to tell a coroner to go to hell, Sid. Can I hide behind the sanctity of my clients' secrets and identities and what-not, all the same priest or lawyer?"
    Sid Wise lifted his shoulders and lowered the ends of his mouth. "Why not? An inquest is not a court-trial. You can try, anyway. You've gotten away with more than that before this."
    "I know, but Dundy's getting snotty, and maybe it is a little bit thick this time. Get your hat, Sid, and we'll go see the right people. I want to be safe."
    Sid Wise looked at the papers massed on his desk and groaned, but he got up from his chair and went to the closet by the window. "You're a son of a gun, Sammy," he said as he took his hat from its hook.
    Spade returned to his office at ten minutes past five that evening. Effie Perine was sitting at his desk reading Time. Spade sat on the desk and asked: "Anything stirring?"
    "Not here. You look like you'd swallowed the canary."
    He grinned contentedly. "I think we've got a future. I always had an idea that if Miles would go off and die somewhere we'd stand a better chance of thriving. Will you