And this tidy sum was being filched from the purse of Charlotte
Lee Weyland, who worked for her living at an honorarium of $75 a month.
Queed walked with his head lowered, bent less against the rain than his
own stinging thoughts. At the corner of Seventh Street a knot of young
men, waiting under a dripping awning for a car that would not come,
cried out gayly to the Doc; they were Mercuries; but the Doc failed to
respond to their greetings, or even to hear them. He crossed the humming
street, northerly, with an experienced sureness acquired since his
exploit with the dog Behemoth; and so came into his own section of the
town.
He was an apostle of law who of all things loved harmony. Already his
mind was busily at work seeking to restore order out of the ruins of his
house. Obviously the first thing to do, the one thing that could not
wait an hour, was to get his sense of honesty somehow back again. He
must compel Surface to hand over to Miss Weyland immediately every cent
of money that he had. The delivery could be arranged easily enough,
without any sensational revelations.
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