"And forty-six dollars," said Flaspoller, who followed the strokes of the pen with incredulous eyes as though unable to believe in Providence. Bojo rose, took the acquittals and the bill of items, and handed them the check, saying: "This closes the matter, I believe." An immense struggle was going on in the minds of the two partners--curiosity, cupidity, and a new sense of the financial strength of the man who could thus toss off checks, plainly written in their startled expressions. "Mr. Crocker, Tom, we should be very glad if you forgot what we said this morning," said Flaspoller hurriedly. "You've been very handsome, very handsome indeed. You can always have a desk in our offices. Mr. Crocker, I apologize for mistaking you. Shake hands!" "Good-by, gentlemen!" said Bojo, lifting his hat with the utmost punctiliousness. He took a hasty luncheon and went uptown to the Court, where Della, the pretty little Irish girl at the telephone desk, opened her eyes in surprise at this unusual appearance. "Why, Mr. Crocker, what's wrong?" "I'm changing my habits, Della," he said with an attempted laugh. He went to his room and sat a long while before the fireplace, pulling at a pipe. At length he rose, went to the desk, and wrote: Dear Doris: A good many things have come up since I left you. I think it is better that no announcement be made until we have had a chance to talk matters over very seriously. I hope that can be soon. BOJO. P.S. Please thank Patsie for packing my bag. I went off in such a rush I think I forgot. P.P.S. Tell Gladys that Fred came out all right--shouldn't be surprised if he'd made a little too. CHAPTER XVIII BOJO FACES THE TRUTH The next days he spent aimlessly. He had a great decision to make, and he acted as though he had not a thought in the world but to drift indolently through life. He idled through breakfast, reading the morning papers laboriously, and was amazed to find that with all his delay it was only eleven o'clock, with an interminable interval to be filled in before lunch. He began a dozen novels, seeking to lose himself in the spell of other lands and other times; but as soon as he sallied out to his club he had the feeling that the world had been turned inside out. After luncheon he tried vainly to inveigle some acquaintance into an afternoon's loafing, only to receive again that impression of strange loneliness in a foreign land, as one after the other disappeared before the call of work. He had nothing to do except the one thing which in the end he knew had to be done, and the more he sought to put it from him, idling in moving-picture halls or consuming long stretches of pavement in exploring tramps, the more he felt something always back of his shoulder, not to be denied.