The cuff links were undoubtedly an object
of envy to the society in which the Pippin moved; they were even
beautiful cuff links, it was true, oriental in design, never to be
mistaken by any one who had ever seen them, and the stones with which
they were set were credited generally in the underworld as being
genuine, but--Jimmie Dale was hesitantly lifting his glass again in a
queer, miserly sort of way. The Pippin had jerked a cigarette box from
his pocket, stuck what was evidently the single cigarette it had
contained between his lips; and now, tossing away the box, he pushed
back his chair and stood up--but on the floor beneath the table, where
it had fluttered unobserved when the cigarette box had been jerked from
the pocket, lay a small folded piece of paper.
"If you hang around long enough, Smarly," gibed the Pippin, as he passed
by on his way toward the door, "maybe some of the rubber-necks off the
gape-wagon will take pity on you and buy you another--the slumming
parties are just crazy about broken-down artists!"
"You go chase yourself!" said Smarlinghue politely, through one corner
of his twisted mouth.
Jimmie Dale's eyes followed the other.
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