And a few hours from that, while the town was still ringing with news of his downfall, the Wizard with his wife and son walked down from their thousand-dollar suite into the corridor, their hands burdened with their satchels. A waiter, with something between a sneer and an obsequious smile upon his face, reached out for the valises, wondering if it was still worth while.
"You get to hell out of that!" said Fred. He had put on again his rough store suit in which he had come from Cahoga County, and there was a dangerous look about his big shoulders and his set jaw. And the waiter slunk back.
So did they pass, unarrested and unhindered, through corridor and rotunda to the outer portals of the great hotel.
Beside the door of the Palaver as they passed out was a tall official with a uniform and a round hat. He was called by the authorities a chasseur or a commissionaire, or some foreign name to mean that he did nothing.
At the sight of him the Wizard's face flushed for a moment, with a look of his old perplexity.
"I wonder," he began to murmur, "how much I ought—"
"Not a damn cent, father," said Fred, as he shouldered past the magnificent chasseur; "let him work."
With which admirable doctrine the Wizard and his son passed from the portals of the Grand Palaver.
Nor was there any arrest either then or later. In spite of the expectations of the rotunda and the announcements of the Financial Undertone, the "man Tomlinson" was not arrested, neither as he left the Grand Palaver nor as he stood waiting at the railroad station with Fred and mother for the outgoing train for Cahoga County.