At eight o clock, when all the high electric lights had come out about the blazing window of the court, recalled by the sounds of music from the glass-paneled restaurant he went out for dinner, wondering why his friends had not returned. At ten when he came back after long tramping of the streets, a note was on the table, in Granning's broad handwriting.
Hoped to catch you. Fred's gone off on a tear; God knows where he is. Roscy and I have been trying to locate him all day. Hope you pulled through, old boy.
Granning.
At twelve o clock, still miserably alone, tortured by remorse and the thought of the wreck he had unwittingly brought his chums, he could bear the suspense of evasion no longer. He went up to Drake's to learn the worst, steeled to a full confession.
In the hall, as he waited chafing and miserable, Fontaine, Gunther's right-hand partner, passed out hurriedly, jaws set, oblivious. Drake was in the library in loose dressing-gown and slippers, a cigar in his mouth, immersed in the usual contemplation of the picture puzzle.
"By George, he bears it well," Bojo thought to himself, moved to admiration by the calm of that impassive figure.
"Hello, Tom," he said, looking up, "what's brought you here at this time of night? Anything wrong?"
"Wrong?" said Bojo faintly. "Haven't you heard about Pittsburgh & New Orleans?"
"Well, what about it?"
Bojo gulped down something that was in his throat, steadying himself against the awful truth that meant ruin and dishonor to him.