The other's gloom cleared a little at this. “Well, you _have_ got it!” he exclaimed briskly. “You don't know how different you'll feel after a long walk in the open air.” He looked at his watch. “I've got to go and see what that newspaper-man, Cornish, wants; it's ten o'clock. I'll be back after a while; I want to reason this out with you. I don't deny but it's possible I'm wrong; anyway, you think it over while I'm gone. You take a good hard think, will you?” As he closed the door, Mellin slowly drew the coverlet over his head. It was as if he covered the face of some one who had just died. VIII. What Cornish Knew Two hours passed before young Cooley returned. He knocked twice without a reply; then he came in. The coverlet was still over Mellin's head. “Asleep?” asked Cooley. “No.” The coverlet was removed by a shaking hand. “Murder!” exclaimed Cooley sympathetically, at sight of the other's face. “A night off certainly does things to you! Better let me get you some--” “No. I'll be all right--after while.” “Then I'll go right ahead with our little troubles. I've decided to leave for Paris by the one-thirty and haven't got a whole lot of time. Cornish is here with me in the hall: he's got something to say that's important for you to hear, and I'm goin' to bring him right in.” He waved his hand toward the door, which he had left open. “Come along, Cornish. Poor ole Mellin'll play Du Barry with us and give us a morning leevy while he listens in a bed with a palanquin to it. Now let's draw up chairs and be sociable.” The journalist came in, smoking a long cigar, and took the chair the youth pushed toward him; but, after a twinkling glance through his big spectacles at the face on the pillow, he rose and threw the cigar out of the window. “Go ahead,” said Cooley. “I want you to tell him just what you told me, and when you're through I want to see if he doesn't think I'm Sherlock Holmes' little brother.” “If Mr. Mellin does not feel too ill,” said Cornish dryly; “I know how painful such cases sometimes--” “No.” Mellin moistened his parched lips and made a pitiful effort to smile. “I'll be all right very soon.” “I am very sorry,” began the journalist, “that I wasn't able to get a few words with Mr. Cooley yesterday evening. Perhaps you noticed that I tried as hard as I could, without using actual force”--he laughed--“to detain him.” “You did your best,” agreed Cooley ruefully, “and I did my worst. Nobody ever listens till the next day!” “Well, I'm glad no vital damage was done, anyway,” said Cornish. “It would have been pretty hard lines if you two young fellows had been poor men, but as it is you're probably none the worse for a lesson like this.” “You seem to think seven thousand dollars is a joke,” remarked Cooley. Cornish laughed again. “You see, it flatters me to think my time was so valuable that a ten minutes' talk with me would have saved so much money.”