"I mean to say nothing. Watch me. Watch Henry Trimmer. Just a tip, young fellow. Well, I guess I'll turn in. Get some of my best ideas in bed. See you later."
And Mr. Trimmer strode into the circle of light, a fine upstanding figure of a man, to pass triumphantly out of sight among the palms. Dazed, Dick Minot stared after him.
A voice spoke his name. He turned. The slim white presence again, holding toward him a slip of paper.
"The check, Mr. Minot. Thirty-five dollars. Is that correct?"
"Correct. It's splendid. Because I'm never going to cash it—I'm going to keep it—"
"Really, Mr, Minot, I must say good—"
He came closer. Thacker and Jephson faded. New York was far away. He was young, and the moon was shining—
"—going to keep it—always. The first letter you ever wrote me—"
"And the last, Mr. Minot. Really—I must go. Good night."
He stood alone, with the absurd check in his
