By five o'clock that afternoon the last package of cards for Garrod's
shoes had been sent by messenger to H. G. Garrod at the Biltmore Hotel.
He was to give a decision next morning. At 5.30 Roger's stenographer
tapped him on the shoulder.
"Mr. Golden, the superintendent of the building, to see you."
Roger turned around dazedly.
"Oh, how do?"
Mr. Golden came directly to the point. If Mr. Halsey intended to keep
the office any longer, the little oversight about the rent had better be
remedied right away.
"Mr. Golden," said Roger wearily, "everything'll be all right to-morrow.
If you worry me now maybe you'll never get your money. After to-morrow
nothing'll matter."
Mr. Golden looked at the tenant uneasily. Young men sometimes did away
with themselves when business went wrong. Then his eye fell unpleasantly
on the initialled suitcase beside the desk.
"Going on a trip?" he asked pointedly.
"What? Oh, no. That's just some clothes."
"Clothes, eh? Well, Mr. Halsey, just to prove that you mean what you
say, suppose you let me keep that suitcase until to-morrow noon."
"Help yourself."
Mr. Golden picked it up with a deprecatory gesture.
"Just a matter of form," he remarked.
"I understand," said Roger, swinging around to his desk. "Good
afternoon."
Mr. Golden seemed to feel that the conversation should close on a softer
key.
"And don't work too hard, Mr. Halsey. You don't want to have a nervous
break----"
"No," shouted Roger, "I don't. But I will if you don't leave me alone."
As the door closed behind Mr. Golden, Roger's stenographer turned
sympathetically around.
"You shouldn't have let him get away with that," she said. "What's in
there? Clothes?"
"No," answered Roger absently. "Just all my wife's shoes."
He slept in the office that night on a sofa beside his desk. At dawn he
awoke with a nervous start, rushed out into the street for coffee, and
returned in ten minutes in a panic--afraid that he might have missed Mr.
Garrod's telephone call. It was then 6.30.
By eight o'clock his whole body seemed to be on fire. When his two
artists arrived he was stretched on the couch in almost physical pain.
The phone rang imperatively at 9.30, and he picked up the receiver with
trembling hands.
"Hello."
"Is this the Halsey agency?"
"Yes, this is Mr. Halsey speaking."
"This is Mr. H. G. Garrod."
Roger's heart stopped beating.
"I called up, young fellow, to say that this is wonderful work you've
given us here. We want all of it and as much more as your office can
do."
"Oh, God!" cried Roger into the transmitter.
"What?" Mr. H. G. Garrod was considerably startled. "Say, wait a minute
there!"
But he was talking to nobody. The phone had clattered to the floor, and
Roger, stretched full length on the couch, was sobbing as if his heart
would break.