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It was Kate Wimper, who, before that, had waylaid the one man for whom she herself had ever cared, and drawn him from her side by such attractions as she herself would keep for an honest wife, if such she ever chanced to be. An honest wife she would have been had Kate Wimper not crossed the straight path of her life.
The woman, Kate Wimper, who had helped to send two people to their graves, would now drink the dregs of shame, if she was capable of shame would be robbed of her happiness, if so be she loved Rube Haman. She stood up, as though to put the paper in the fire, but paused suddenly at one thought Rube Haman was innocent of murder.
Drawing to him one of the Whigham & Wimper letterheads, P. Sybarite dipped a pen, considered briefly, and wrote rapidly and freely in a minute hand: MY DEAR MAE ALYS: Every man has his price. You know mine. Pocketing false pride, I accept your bounty with all the gratitude and humility becoming in a poor relation.
Lucy had been all English in face and tongue, a flower of the west, driven to darkness by this horse-dealing brute, who, before he was arrested and tried for murder, was about to marry Kate Wimper.
Kate Wimper had stolen him from Lucy before Lucy's first and only child was born, the child that could not survive the warm mother-life withdrawn, and so had gone down the valley whither the broken-hearted mother had fled.
Lucy had been all English in face and tongue, a flower of the west, driven to darkness by this horse-dealing brute, who, before he was arrested and tried for murder, was about to marry Kate Wimper.
"Well, you was at college oncet, wasn't you?" "I was," P.S. admitted with reluctance; "but I never graduated. When I was twenty-one I had to quit to go to work for Whigham & Wimper." "G'wan," commented the other. "They ain't been in business twenty-five years." "I'm only thirty-one." "More news for Sweeny. You'll never see forty again."
Her eyes blazed, her breast heaved now. She had been so quiet, so cold and still. But life seemed moving in her once again. The woman, Kate Wimper, who had helped to send two people to their graves, would now drink the dregs of shame, if she was capable of shame would be robbed of her happiness, if so be she loved Rube Haman.
The Place was the counting-room in the warehouse of Messrs. Whigham & Wimper, Hides & Skins; and the Genius of it was the reek of hides both raw and dressed an effluvium incomparable, a passionate individualist of an odour, as rich as the imagination of an editor of Sunday supplements, as rare as a reticent author, as friendly as a stray puppy.
"P., unfortunately, Sybarite," he said: "bookkeeper for Whigham and Wimper leather merchants, Frankfort Street." "And how did you come by that coat and hat?" "Borrowed it from a drunken cop in Penfield's, a little while ago. They were raiding the place and I kind of wanted to get away.
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