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"My God!" cried Bert, aghast. "Why did you let the game go on?" "I tried to stop it, but I had given my word and you " "Well, don't let us stand chattering here. He's at the Metropolitan, isn't he? Then come along. Hurry into your coat." Mellish knew the number of Rowell's room and so no time was lost in the hotel office with inquiries. He tried the door, but, as he expected, it was locked.
Many difficulties at once present themselves, and I do not wonder at Dr. Rowell's look of surprise and incredulity." That gentleman smiled and shook his head. "It is a desperate chance," continued Entrefort, "and is a novel case in surgery; but it is the only chance. The fact that the weapon is a stiletto is the important point a stupid weapon, but a blessing to us now.
Mention should also be made here of the admirably comprehensive annual "Rowell's Newspaper Directory," which should rather be called the "American Periodical Directory," since it has a classified catalogue of all periodicals published in the United States and Canada.
"Depends on what capital you have. How much capital can you command?" The cashier hesitated for a moment and his eyes fell from the steady light of Rowell's, which seemed to have an uncomfortable habit of looking into one's inmost soul. "I can bring $1,000 here on Saturday night." "All right. That will do as a starter. Is it an appointment then?" "Yes, if you like. What time?"
"It is a little late," admitted Mellish, as if the idea had not occurred to him before. The police who had come in by the back entrance appeared at the other end of the room and it was evident that Rowell's oration had come to an untimely end. Pony looked grieved and hurt, but said nothing. "We will have to search the premises, Mr. Mellish," said the sergeant.
Rowell's medicine came and I administered a dose. The physician and the surgeon then retired. The poor sufferer straightened up his business. When it was done he asked me, "What is that crazy Frenchman going to do to me?" "I have no idea; be patient." In less than an hour they returned, bringing with them a keen-eyed, tall young man, who had a number of tools wrapped in an apron.
An actor's face has a certain mobility of expression resulting from the habit of assuming characters differing widely. Rowell's face, when you came to look at it closely, showed that it had been accustomed to repress expression rather than to show emotion of any kind.
He drew his hand across his brow and then said mechanically, as if he had just heard his opponent's remark: "No hurry? All right. Next week. Certainly. I guess I'll go home now." Forme went out, leaving Rowell idly shuffling the cards at the small table. The moment the young man had disappeared all Rowell's indolence vanished.
The young man became more and more excited as the play went on. As for Pony, he was cool under any circumstances. Before an hour had passed the $1,000 was transferred from the possession of Forme into the pockets of the professional, and by midnight the younger man was another $1,000 in Rowell's debt.
A quizzical expression, faintly amused and manifestly interested, was upon Dr. Rowell's face. "What is the weapon, doctor?" he asked. "A stiletto." Arnold started. Dr. Rowell appeared confused. "I must confess," he said, "my ignorance of the differences among these penetrating weapons, whether dirks, daggers, stilettos, poniards, or bowie-knives."
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