He left me in a drug-store. "I'll get him!" were his last words as he raised his hat.
I waited three quarters of an hour. It was after one o'clock when I saw Oliver push open the big plate-glass door. He had been hurrying. His face was red, his eyes startled and frightened, his hair tossed a little under the cap he wore. At sight of me he stopped, then strode up to me, where I was sitting on a stool by the soda-fountain.
"You!" he gasped. "You! For heaven's sake, Bobbie, what are you here for?"
"I telegraphed," I explained. "Didn't you—"
"No," he broke in, "I've had no telegram. What's the trouble anyhow? Who's dead? Who—"
"Why, Oliver," I replied calmly, "nobody's dead." Then in a lower tone, "I've come with the money," I said.
"The money! Why didn't you mail it?" he fired.
"Your letter didn't come till this morning, and—isn't the meeting to-day?"
"Oh, yes," he said still annoyed; "but there was no such rush. I've managed to borrow enough to fix that up. Oh, I knew I better not rely on your getting it here, and so a friend of mine lent me enough to tide me over." We had moved away from the soda-fountain and were talking in low tones beside a display of fancy soap.
"Then why—?" I began.
"Oh, because," he took me up, "I've got to pay Holmes back. No man of any respect owes money to a friend for a longer time than he can help. But Holmes didn't expect it till next week. It was absolutely crazy, your coming way down here. You
