week would do equally. There was no doubt either. Lemuel Doret gave a passing thought, like a half-contemptuous gesture of final dismissal, to so much that had lately occupied him. The shadow of a smile disfigured his metallic lips.
The following noon he shut the door of his house with a sharp impact and made his way over the single street of Nantbrook toward the city. His fear of it had vanished; and when he reached the steel-bound towering masonry, the pouring crowds, he moved directly to a theater from which an audience composed entirely of men was passing out by the posters of a hectic burlesque.
"Clegett?" he asked at the grille of the box office.
A small man with a tilted black derby came from the darkened auditorium.
"Where have you been?" he demanded as he caught sight of Lemuel Doret. "I asked two or three but you might have been dead for all of them."
"That's just about what I have," Doret answered. "Mr. Clegett, I'd like a little money."
"How little?"
"A hundred would be plenty."
The other without hesitation produced a fold of currency, from which he transferred an amount to Lemuel Doret. It went into his pocket without a glance. He hesitated a moment, then added: "This will be all."
Clegett nodded. "It might, and it might not," he asserted; "but you can't jam me. You're welcome to that, anyhow. It was coming to you. I wondered when you'd be round."
It was not far from the theater to a glittering hardware
