“Glad to know it,” laughed Macloud, as he arose and sauntered away.
Hungerford drew out his cigarettes and thoughtfully lighted one.
“I wonder—did he mean I am or I am not?” he said. “I wonder. I shall have to ask him some time.—Boy! a Scotch and soda.”
Meanwhile, Macloud passed into the Club-house and, mounting the stairs to the second floor, knocked sharply at a door in the north-west corner of the corridor.
“Come in,” called a voice.—“Who is it?—Oh! it’s you, Macloud. Make yourself at home—I’ll be out in a moment.”
There was the noise of splashing water, accompanied by sundry exclamations and snorts, followed 13 by a period of silence; and, then, from the bath room, emerged Croyden clad in robe, slippers and a smile.
“Help yourself,” he said, pointing to the smoking materials. He filled a pipe, lit it carefully, blew a few whiffs to the ceiling and watched them slowly dissipate.
“Well, it’s come,” he remarked: “Royster & Axtell have smashed clean.”
“Not clean,” said Macloud. “It is going to be the most criminal failure this town has ever known.”
“I mean they have busted wide open—and I’m one of the suckers.”