"Something new?"
"Yes; within six months. Uncle died and left him a lot of loose change. He's been blowing it in."
"How? Of course, it's on the quiet?"
"Oh, yes! He's at church every Sunday."
"Yesterday?"
"No. I meant metaphorically."
By eight o'clock dinner had been entirely served, and Scott had received all his instructions.
"Guess I'll step over to the Pattersons' now for a short cigar," he remarked, "and pick up the crowd. See you to-morrow at eight-thirty."
"Good night. Have a good time," called Ralston after him, as the youthful figure passed out. He was very fond of Scott. He wondered if what the boy had said about Steadman was true. A fellow could go down a lot in six months, or in less. Steadman had always had a weakness. Ralston had never liked him, though forced to be in his company on many occasions.
"I'll smoke at the room," he thought, and paid his bill. "I'm going off to Washington, William, so I'd better settle," he remarked to the old waiter.