O sapient newspaper! Derwent turned to the first page, the bulk of which was filled by the great ball, where he read of the diamonds and the dresses, how Mrs. Wilton Hay wore a sleeveless satin and a rope of pearls; how Mrs. John Malgam had her corsage cut en cœur, and how well looked Mrs. Gower in a simple gown, cut directoire, and how well the footmen’s calves in white silk stockings. But just then some young men entered from down-town; and quite a group drew close about them.
“Is it all true about Townley?”
“Perfect smash, I hear——”
“No one knows where Tamms is——”
“Canada, they say——”
“Charlie Townley was there at the opening, but the fire finished him. A little Starbuck Oil was positively all they had.” The last speaker was Arthur Holyoke.
“They say that even he left the State to-night. Poor Charlie, I’m sorry for him,” said Killian Van Kull.
“There’s a warrant out for Tamms already,” said another. “Old Fechheimer got it.”
“He pledged a lot of Fechheimer’s bonds that he held in a syndicate, I was told,” said Jack Malgam.
“Here are the evening papers,” cried another, as a servant entered bearing a bundle of newspapers, which were quickly seized and devoured. For some minutes all was silence, save for an occasional ejaculation of surprise. Derwent continued to watch the club-room silently. Old Mr. Livingstone still sat in his chair, looking at the empty one over against him, which no one had taken.