described Thursby as Miss Wonderly had described him.

 

“What for?”

 

Spade put his hands into his overcoat-pockets and blinked sleepy eyes at Tom.

 

Tom repeated impatiently: “What for?”

 

“He was an Englishman, maybe. I don’t know what his game was, exactly.

 

We were trying to find out where he lived.” Spade grinned faintly and took a

hand from his pocket to pat Tom’s shoulder. “Don’t crowd me.” He put the hand in

his pocket again. “I’m going out to break the news to Miles’s wife.” He turned

away.

 

Tom, scowling, opened his mouth, closed it without having said anything, cleared

his throat, put the scowl off his face, and spoke with a husky sort of

gentleness:

 

“It’s tough, him getting it like that. Miles had his faults same as the rest of

us, but I guess he must’ve had some good points too.”

 

“I guess so,” Spade agreed in a tone that was utterly meaningless, and went out

of the alley.