"That is your affair, not mine. Can't you tell him you want to pay a tailor's bill, and get the money that way?"
"No; I get my clothes charged at his tailor's."
"Oh, well, I don't care how you get it as long as you do get it. Doesn't your father leave any money lying about in his desk or in his bureau drawers?"
"No. Besides, you don't want me to steal, do you?"
"Not if you can get the money any other way."
"Look here, Mr. Schuyler, I thought you were rich. How do you happen to be in want of seventy-five dollars?"
"Anybody might be short of money. One day when I was traveling in the Adirondacks, I met a rich man—a millionaire—who was in trouble. 'I say, Schuyler,' he said to me, 'can you loan me a hundred dollars. I give you my word I am almost penniless, and no one knows me here.' Now I happened to have three hundred dollars in my pocketbook, and I at once produced it and lent him the money. You see even a millionaire can get into a money scrape."
"Who was the millionaire?" asked Edgar, who was not quite so credulous a believer of Schuyler's pictures as formerly.
"I don't feel at liberty to tell. It would not be honorable. But to come back to our own business! You must make some arrangement to pay me."
"Tell me how," said Edgar sulkily.