“Well, that’s about all then, I guess,” said Gretry at last, as he pushed back his chair and rose from the table.
He and Jadwin were in a room on the third floor of the Grand Pacific Hotel, facing Jackson Street. It was three o’clock in the morning. Both men were in their shirtsleeves; the table at which they had been sitting was scattered over with papers, telegraph blanks, and at Jadwin’s elbow stood a lacquer tray filled with the stumps of cigars and burnt matches, together with one of the hotel pitchers of ice water.
“Yes,” assented Jadwin, absently, running through a sheaf of telegrams, “that’s all we can do—until we see what kind of a game Crookes means to play. I’ll be at your office by eight.”
“Well,” said the broker, getting into his coat, “I guess I’ll go to my room and try to get a little sleep. I wish I could see how we’ll be tomorrow night at this time.”
Jadwin made a sharp movement of impatience.