"Correct. It's splendid. Because I'm never going to cash it—I'm going to keep it—"
"Really, Mr. Minot, I must say good—"
He came closer. Thacker and Jephson faded. New York was far away. He was young, and the moon was shining—
"—going to keep it—always. The first letter you ever wrote me—"
"And the last, Mr. Minot. Really—I must go. Good night."
He stood alone, with the absurd check in his trembling fingers. Slowly the memory of Trimmer came back. A bomb? What sort of a bomb?
Well, he had given his word. There was no way out—he must protect old Jephson's interests. But might he not wish the enemy—success? He stared off in the direction the advertising wizard had gone.
"Trimmer, old boy," he muttered, "here's to your pitching arm!"