Eventually he said good night; he would be delaying the yacht, he explained. But he promised to write, which was something that had not even been hinted at during the conversation. He also shook hands with her, begged her to have faith in him, urged her to believe nothing she might hear, reaffirmed his purpose to become a bishop and perhaps even an archbishop, told her that she inspired him to great things, as witness—a kiss that landed on the end of her nose. Then he ran.
Nell Norcross was still sitting on the top step half an hour later, trying to muster sufficient confidence for the climb up-stairs.
At about the same time Bill Marshall was taking leave of a friend in the back room of a hostelry that had descended to the evil fortunes of selling near-beer.
"I'm sorry I won't be able to be there, Kid," he said, "but go to it and don't worry about any cops butting in to bust up the game."
"I'll run it strictly Q. T., Bill. Doncha worry about nothin'."
"I won't. But I owe you that much for the way they chucked you out of the house the other night."
"'Sall right, 'sall right," said Kid Whaley with a generous wave of his hand. "They didn't hurt me none."
Bill handed him something, and the Kid pocketed it with a wink.
"I'd like to take you with me, Kid; but you understand."