When the club answered, I asked whether Mr. Fred Salmon happened to be in and was informed that the doorman thought he was and that he would page him. I sat waiting with the receiver to my ear.
"Tell you what I'll do," said Pendleton, under the stimulus of expectation. "If you pull this off for me so I can start to-night, while the mood's on me, I'll sign any damn thing you please."
"Hello!" I suddenly heard in Fred Salmon's deep voice, "Salmon speaking."
"Fred," I told him, "this is Randolph Byrd."
"Hello, Ranny!" he broke in exuberantly. "Well, of all the ghosts—" but I checked him.
"—I want to cash a check for a thousand dollars right now, Fred. I am at the Manhattan Hotel. The banks are closed. Will you do this for me: Ask at the office and turn out your pockets and get what you can from any of the card players there and anybody else you know. Do you follow me?"
"I get you all right—all right—" said the voice of Fred, hardening to a businesslike tone now that money was in question. "Hold the wire a minute, Ran. I'll see what I can do."
Fred's raucous voice was as plainly audible to Pendleton as it was to me.
"Get it," he muttered. "Get it. I'd hate to wait till to-morrow."
I nodded. To be rid of him to-night would be a vast relief. And I longed to return home.