“Neither do I,” Mr. Cooley agreed.  “I left a silver cigarette-case at the apartment last night, and after talkin’ to Cornish a while ago, I sent my man for it with a note to her that’ll make ’em all sit up and take some notice.  The gang’s all there together, you can be sure.  I asked for Sneyd and Pedlow in the office and found they’d gone out early this morning leavin’ word they wouldn’t be back till midnight.  And, see here; I know I’m easy, but somehow I believe you’re even a softer piece o’ meat than I am.  I want you to promise me that whatever happens you won’t pay that I O U.”

Mellin moistened his lips in vain.  He could not answer.

“I want you to promise me not to pay it,” repeated Cooley earnestly.

“I promise,” gasped Mellin.

“You won’t pay it no matter what they do?”

“No.”

This seemed to reassure Mr. Cooley.

“Well,” he said, “I’ve got to hustle to get my car shipped and make the train.  Cornish has finished his job down here and he’s goin’ with me.  I want to get out.  The whole thing’s left a mighty bad taste in my mouth, and I’d go crazy if I didn’t get away from it.  Why don’t you jump into your clothes and come along, too?”

“I can’t.”

“Well,” said the young man with a sympathetic shake of the head, “you certainly look sick.  It may be better if you stay in bed till evening:  a train’s a mighty mean place for the day after.  But I wouldn’t hang around here too long.  If you want money, all you have to do is to ask the hotel to cash a check on your home bank; they’re always glad to do that for Americans.”  He turned to the door.  “Mr. Cornish, if you’re goin’ to help me about shipping the car, I’m ready.”

“So am I. Good-by, Mr. Mellin.”

“Good-by,” Mellin said feebly—­“and thank you.”

Young Cooley came back to the bedside and shook the other’s feverish hand.  “Good-by, ole man.  I’m awful sorry it’s all happened, but I’m glad it didn’t cost you quite as much money as it did me.  Otherwise I expect it’s hit us about equally hard.  I wish—­I wish I could find a nice one”—­the youth gulped over something not unlike a sob—­“as fascinatin’ as her!”

Most people have had dreams of approaching dangers in the path of which their bodies remained inert; when, in spite of the frantic wish to fly, it was impossible to move, while all the time the horror crept closer and closer.  This was Mellin’s state as he saw the young man going.  It was absolutely necessary to ask Cooley for help, to beg him for a loan.  But he could not.

He saw Cooley’s hand on the doorknob; saw the door swing open.

“Good-by, again,” Cooley said; “and good luck to you!”

Mellin’s will strove desperately with the shame that held him silent.

The door was closing.

“Oh, Cooley,” called Mellin hoarsely.

“Yes.  What?”

“J-j-just good-by,” said Mellin.