CHAPTER VII
The brokerage firm of Williams & Slosson had not yet arrived at the point of throwing away money on externals. The offices consisted of a reception room and outer office, and two private offices, in one of the old buildings across from the Board of Trade.
Under their windows was Monument Place. All the life of the city flowed around and through and under the monument; from his desk, Ried Williams had beneath his eyes the pulsing heart of Indianapolis. Upon this particular Tuesday morning, however, he was taking no interest whatever in the view. He had arrived early at the office and was in irritable humor.
"No word yet from Mr. Slosson?" he snapped at the typist.
"No, sir."
"Confound it! Nine o'clock now—here, call up his hotel and get him on the line if he's there. If not, see if they've heard from him."
Five minutes later, Williams uttered a grunt of satisfaction as he seized his desk telephone and heard the sleepy accents of his partner.
"Where've you been, Pete? Why didn't you show up here yesterday—what?" He paused, listening, and changed countenance. "What's that? Robbed and thrown off the train? What have you done about it?"
He listened anew, his sallow features tightening with anxiety.
"Well, I suppose you did right to say nothing," he admitted. "You don't know who it was, eh? Were you drunk? Oh, never mind all that—I know you. Well, get dressed and get down here right away. You've had a fine long spree in New York, and now you're going to watch your step—what? Yes, the checks came in this morning's mail; Macgowan must have sent them out first thing yesterday morning. Get down here, now, and get down at once. All right."