his red brow—the picture of a man with a telephone dice-box to his ear, and at the small voice of a single question, struck suddenly as white as ashes.
From these considerations I was awakened by the striking of the clock. An hour and nearly twenty minutes had elapsed since Pinkerton departed for the money: he was twenty minutes behind time; and to me who knew so well his gluttonous despatch of business and had so frequently admired his iron punctuality, the fact spoke volumes. The twenty minutes slowly stretched into an hour; the hour had nearly extended to a second; and I still sat in my corner of the office, or paced the marble pavement of the hall, a prey to the most wretched anxiety and penitence. The hour for lunch was nearly over before I remembered that I had not eaten. Heaven knows I had no appetite; but there might still be much to do—it was needful I should keep myself in proper trim, if it were only to digest the now too probable bad news; and leaving word at the office for Pinkerton, I sat down to table and called for soup, oysters, and a pint of champagne.
I was not long set, before my friend returned. He looked pale and rather old, refused to hear of food, and called for tea.
“I suppose all's up?” said I, with an incredible sinking.
“No,” he replied; “I've pulled it through, Loudon—just pulled it through. I couldn't have raised another cent in all 'Frisco. People don't like it; Longhurst even went back on me; said he wasn't a three-card-monte man.”
“Well, what's the odds?” said I. “That's all we wanted, isn't it?”
“Loudon, I tell you I've had to pay blood for that money,” cried my friend, with almost savage energy and gloom. “It's all on ninety days, too; I couldn't get another day—not another day. If we go ahead
