"The money?" And when there was no reply but a surprised look, "How do you stand now?"
"Still seventy-two thousand to raise." Cummings spoke vaguely. This was not what had brought him to the office. He finished with the abrupt question, "Were you at Santa Ysobel last night?"
"Hold on, Cummings," I broke in. "What you got? Let us—"
I was shut off there by Worth's,
"It's Sunday afternoon. I want that money to-morrow morning. You've not come through? You've not dug up what I sent you after?"
I could see that the lawyer was absolutely nonplussed. Again he gave Worth one of those queer, probing looks before he said doggedly,
"The question of that money can wait."
"It can't wait." Worth's eyes began to light up. "What you talking, Cummings—an extension?" And when the lawyer made no answer to this, "I'll not crawl in with a broken leg asking favors of that bank crowd. Are you quitting on me? If so, say it—and I'll find a way to raise the sum, myself."
"I've raised all but seventy-two thousand of the necessary amount," said Cummings slowly. "What I want to know is—how much have you raised?"
"See here, Cummings," again I mixed in. "I was present when that arrangement was made. Nothing was said about Worth raising any money."