"Black, white or yellow, any color you like." She made a deprecatory gesture, "But I don’t put it that way myself; all I do say is, that it’s for your interest to leave us alone. You know as well as I do that we can put the kibosh on your business, if we want to. We’ve got a pretty good gang to work with, and when we pass the word round and hand you the double-cross, you won’t read many more palms at five per, not in this town you won’t." He smiled. "That’s all a bluff. You can’t expose me without giving yourself away as well." "What have we got to lose? We could get the old man back any time we gave him a jolly. You can’t bust up our business—too many suckers in town for that. Lord, I’ve been exposed till I grew fat on it. But we can break _you_, Frank Granthope; we can bust your business and queer you with this swell push, easy, not to speak of Clytie Payson." "Well, then," said Granthope, rising and taking his hat, "go ahead and do it! We might just as well settle this thing now. Smash my business—I don’t care; I wish you would! Ruin any social ambition I may be fool enough to have—it’ll serve me right for caring for such nonsense. Tell Miss Payson all you know—it’ll save me the shame of telling her myself. God knows I wish she did know it! I’m getting sick of the whole dirty game." Madam Spoll, completely taken aback by his unexpected change of base, stood with a sneer on her face, watching him. "You ought to go on the stage, Frank Granthope—you almost fooled me for a minute," she said with an ironic smile. "I fully expected you to say you had joined the Salvation Army next, and had come around here to save me from hell. So you’ve got religion, have you? You’d look well in a white necktie, you would! And your inside pocket full of mash notes!" "Well," he said, walking to the door, "you’ve had your say and I’ve had mine. You can believe what you please, but when you do think it over, you may recall the fact that I usually mean what I say." This was the end of the interview. Madam Spoll, at Vixley’s instigation, had sent for Granthope and had "put on the screws." Granthope walked back to his rooms in a brown study. He was at bay now, and there seemed to be no escape for him. The red-headed office boy was whistling and whittling a pencil lazily at Fancy’s desk as the palmist entered. There was no one else in the room. "Has anybody been here, Jim?" Granthope asked. Jim looked up carelessly and replied, "Dere was a lady what blew in about a half an hour ago and she told me she might float back." "Who was she?" "She wouldn’t leave no name, but she was a kissamaroot from Peachville Center all right. She looked like she was just graduated from a French laundry. She left dese gloves here." He handed over a pair of long, immaculately white gloves, which were lying on a chair. Granthope looked at them carefully, blew one out till it took the form of a hand and then inspected the wrinkles.