"Yes, ma'am. Sending it would eat up all the profits." But, with ill-concealed eagerness, "If you will leave your address I can send as many as you like."
"I will do that."
Incredible as it seemed, neither face lost its repose; he dared not smile, and the young woman did not care to. There was something familiar to his memory in the oval face, but this was no time for a diligent search.
"Hey, miss," yelled one of the newsboys, "you're t'rowin' your money away. He's a fake; he ain't no statoo seller. He's doing it for a joke!"
Fitzgerald lost a little color, that was all. But his customer ignored the imputation. She took out a card and laid it on the tray, and without further ado went serenely on her way. The policeman stepped toward her as if to speak, but she turned her delicate head aside. The crowd engulfed her presently, and Fitzgerald picked up the card. There was neither name nor definite address on it. It was a message, hastily written; and it sent a thrill of delight and speculation to his impressionable heart. Still carrying the tray before him he hastened over to the club, where there was something of an ovation. Instead of a dinner for three it became one for a dozen, and Fitzgerald passed the statuettes round as souvenirs of the most unique bet of the year. There were lively times. Toward midnight, as Fitzgerald was going out of the coat room, Cathewe spoke to him.
"What was her name, Jack?"
"Hanged if I know."
"She dropped a card on your tray."
Fitzgerald scrubbed his chin. "There wasn't any name on it. There was an address and something more. Now, wait a moment, Arthur; this is no ordinary affair. I would not show it to any one else. Here, read it yourself."
"Come to the house at the top of the hill, in Dalton, to-morrow night at eight o'clock. But do not come if you lack courage."