She was a little, plucky, pale-faced thing whom you called instinctively by her first name at the end of half an hour--a sort of little mother of loose-ended men, who can make silk purses out of sows' ears, and wouldn't know how to brag if she were tempted.
"Say, Jim," she asked, turning her head quickly like a bird toward Grim on my left, "what's your verdict about that man from Syria that Roger took in a cab to the Sikh hospital?
I'm out a new pair of riding breeches if Roger has to pay the bill for him.

I want my money's worth.
Tell me his story." "Go ahead and buy the breeches, Mabel.

I'll settle that bill," he answered.
"No, you won't, Jim! You're always squandering money.

Half your pay goes to the scallywags you've landed in jail.

This one's up to Roger and me; we found him." Grim laughed.
"I can charge his keep under the head of 'information paid for.' I shall sign the voucher without a qualm." "You'd get blood out of a stone, Jim! Go on, tell us!" "I'm hired to keep secrets as well as discover them," Grim answered, smiling broadly.
"Of course you are," she retorted.