"Well, get this then--feast your eyes on it," said Bojo, sitting beside him, his arm about his shoulder and the check held before his eyes. "That's profit--my part out of ten millions Drake cleaned up by selling out to the Gunther crowd. Listen." He repeated in detail the story of the night, adding: "Now do you see it? Every cent we lost bearing the stock goes to expenses--that's understood." "You mean--" DeLancy rose, steadied himself, and lurched against a chair. "You mean what I lost--what I--" "What you've lost and Louise's losses, too," said Bojo quickly--"every cent is paid by the pool. There wasn't the slightest question about that!" "Is that the truth?" "Yes." Fred's sunken eyes rested on Bojo's an interminable moment, and the agony written on that fevered face steeled Crocker in his resolve. Presently DeLancy, as though convinced, turned away. "Good Lord, I thought I was done for!" he said in a whisper. His lip trembled, he caught at his throat, and the next moment his racked body was shaken with convulsive sobs. "Let yourself go, Fred; it's all right--everything's all right," said Bojo hastily. He left the den, nodding to Granning, and went to his bedroom. His bag was still on the bed, where he had thrown it unopened. He took out his clothes mechanically, feeling the weariness of the wasted night, and suddenly on the top of a folded jacket he found a card, in Patsie's writing; a few words only, timidly offered. "I hope, oh, I do hope everything will come all right," and below these two lines that started reveries in his eyes, the signature was not Patsie, but Drina. When he came into the den again after a hasty toilet, DeLancy had got hold of himself again. "Better, old boy?" said Bojo, pulling his ear. "If you knew--if you knew what I'd been through," said Fred with a quick breath. "I know," said Bojo, shuddering instinctively. "Now let's get to business. You'll feel a lot better when you tidy up your bank account. What did you lose?" "I say, Bojo," said DeLancy, avoiding his glance, "on your honor straight this is all right, isn't it?" "Sure!" "I ought to take it--there's no reason why--you're not telling me a fake story?" "I certainly am not," said Bojo cheerily, taking up his check-book at the desk. "Come on now." But DeLancy, unconvinced, still wavered. "How about Roscy?" he said slowly, his eyes fixed, his mouth parted as though hanging on the answer. "The same thing goes with Roscy, naturally," said Bojo, carelessly. DeLancy drew a long breath and approached. "How much? Confess up!" "Twenty-seven thousand eight hundred." Bojo restrained a start of amazement. "Say twenty-eight flat," he said carefully. "Does that include Louise Varney's account?" "Yes, everything," said DeLancy slowly. He stood at the desk, staring, while Bojo wrote a check, watching the traveling pen as though still incredulous. "There you are, old rooster, and good luck," said Bojo.