Allbright hesitated. His eyes fell on three gold balls suspended in the air over a door a little way down a cross street. “Yes,” he said. “I believe that Captain Arthur Carroll will pay every man he owes every dollar he owes.”
“Well, I guess it's all right,” said Day. “I'm goin' to take the girls to Madison Square Garden to-night. I'm pretty short of cash, but you may as well live while you do live. I wonder if the boss is married.”
“I don't know.”
“I guess he is,” said Day, “and I guess he's all right and above board. Good-bye, Allbright. See you Monday.”
But Monday, when the two stenographers, the book-keeper, and the clerk met at the office, they found it still locked, and a sign “To let” upon the door.
“Mr. Carroll gave up his office last Saturday,” said the man in the elevator. “The janitor said so, and they have taken his safe out for rent. Guess he bust in the Wall Street shindy last week.”
Out on the sidewalk the four looked at one another. The pretty stenographer began to cry in a pocket-handkerchief edged with wide, cheap lace.
“I call it a shame,” she said, “and here I am owing for board, and—”
“Don't cry, May,” said Day, with a caressing gesture towards her in spite of the place. “I guess it will be all right. He has all our addresses, and we shall hear, and you won't have a mite of trouble getting another place.”
“I think I am justified in telling you all not to worry in the least, that you will be paid every dollar,” said Allbright; but he looked perplexed and troubled.