Wheaton paused in the door; Snyder had followed him. They were the same height as they stood up together.
"That's too much money to trust you with."
"The more money the farther I can get," pleaded Snyder.
"I'll be here at eight to-morrow evening," said Wheaton, "and you stay here until I come."
"Give me a dollar on account; I haven't a cent."
"You're better off that way; I want to find you sober to-morrow night." He went out and closed the door after him.
Two or three men who were sitting in the office below eyed Wheaton curiously as he went out. The thought that they might recognize him from his portraits in the papers pleased him.
He retraced his steps from the hotel and boarded a car filled with people of the laboring class who were returning from an outing in the suburbs. They were making merry in a strange tongue, and their boisterous mirth was an offense to him. He was a gentleman of position returning from an errand of philanthropy, and he remained on the platform, where the atmosphere was purer than that within, which was contaminated by the rough young Swedes and their yellow-haired sweethearts. When he reached The Bachelors' the dozing Chinaman told him that all the others were out. He went to his room and spent the rest of the evening reading a novel which he had heard Evelyn Porter mention the night that he had dined at her house.
The next day he bought a ticket to Spokane, and drew one hundred dollars from his account in the bank. He went at eight o'clock to the Occidental to keep his appointment, and found Snyder patiently waiting for him in the hotel office, holding a shabby valise between his knees.