"You'll have to pay, Bill. I've got less than a dollar left. And I touched Gaskill for a hundred and fifty to-night. You can imagine how drunk he was, to let me have it. How they've been shying off from me these last few months!"
"And you want Galloway to come to you," thrust Tetlow, as he counted out the money.
"Don't go back and chew on that," laughed Norman. "It's settled." He took the money, gave it to the driver. "Thanks," he said to Tetlow. "I'll pay you to-morrow—that is, later to-day—when you send me another check."
"Why should you pay for my cab?" rejoined Tetlow.
"Because it's easier for me to make money than it is for you," replied Norman. "If you were in my position—the position I've been in for months—would anybody on earth give you three thousand dollars a month?"
Tetlow looked sour. His good nature was rubbing thin in spots.
"Don't lose your temper," laughed Norman. "I'm pounding away at you about my superiority, partly because I've been drinking, but chiefly for your own good—so that you'll realize I'm right and not mess things with Galloway."
They went up to Norman's suite. Norman tried to unlock the door, found it already unlocked. He turned the knob, threw the door wide for Tetlow to enter first. Then, over Tetlow's shoulder he saw on the marble-topped center table Dorothy's hat and jacket, the one she had worn away, the only one she had. He stared at them, then at Tetlow. A confused look in the fat, slow face made him say sharply:
"What does this mean, Tetlow?"
"Not so loud, Fred," said Tetlow, closing the door into the public hall. "She's in the bedroom—probably asleep. She's been here since yesterday."