The watch was of gun-metal; the sleeve links, the simplest he had owned, were destitute of precious stones; and the pawnbroker having examined the offered objects with an air of disparagement, mentioned the sum of nine dollars. When urged to make a higher bid, he remarked that he was "no Santa Claus," and at last showed himself so indifferent that Loveland was glad to exchange his despised belongings for one dollar less than the sum at first refused.
"I expect the old Curmudge will be on for his scene by the time we get back," said Bill, as they returned to Alexander the Great's after an absence of nearly an hour, during which time Loveland had provided his shirt-front with cheap celluloid studs.
But "Curmudge"—alias Mr. Solomon, alias Alexander—was still absent. His understudy, Izzie of the almond-eyes, continued to reign alone over a kingdom of marble-topped tables and empty red chairs awaiting their next occupants; but sixty minutes had changed her oddly. She looked up with a nervous start when Loveland came in with Bill, and hid in her lap the newspaper which had been lying before her on the desk.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Morning Paper
"I shall be able to pay you for my breakfast and the messenger now," said Loveland. "And if you've a private room, I'd like to engage it till afternoon, when I can send to the hotel again, and find the cable telling me how and where to get the money on my letter of credit. It's rather awkward being here in these clothes, and——"
"We haven't got a private room," replied the girl, "except our own parlour. I wish we had, because—because I guess you're just about right. You oughtn't to be here, today, sitting around dressed that way. You might be noticed, and—and——" She hesitated, then began to speak again quickly, in a low voice. "See here, Mr.—Mr. Gordon. I don't know but I'd better tell you something. Bend down; I don't want the waiters to hear. Dutchy don't catch onto English much, but folks always understand when you don't want 'em to. Of course it's all right about Bill, as he's your friend. I suppose he knows?"
"Knows what?" enquired Val, bending down towards her as she had asked, his elbows on the counter, while Bill tactfully retired out of earshot.
"Why—it's—it's in the paper; this morning's 'Light.'"