and half a dozen enormous winter and summer places, looked no more like a boniface than he did like a little girl on communion Sunday. He was a small, wispy, waspish fellow with a violently upright, raging pompadour, a mustache which, in spite of careful attempts at waxing, persisted in sticking straight forward, and a sharp hard nose which had apparently been tempered to a delicate purple. 

 "Hear you've revived your hotel project," he said to Mr. Courtney. 

 "No," denied Courtney. "Sold the property." 

 "I know," agreed Mr. Washer with absolute disbelief. "What'll you take for it?" 

 "I told you it was sold. Here's the contract." And, with great satisfaction, Courtney passed over the document. 

 "Two million six hundred and fifty!" snorted Washer. "That's half a million more than it's worth." 

 "You told my friends you intended to buy the railroad plot at three and a half," Courtney gladly reminded him. 

 "It's four hundred feet deep." 

 "You said you only wanted two hundred feet square, which is the size of this plot—and this is an equally good location." 

 "I know," admitted Washer, contemptuous of all such trifles. "What will you take for the property—spot cash?" 

 "It's sold, I tell you. If you want to buy it see Mr. Gamble." 

 "Who's Gamble?" 

 "The man who is organizing the Terminal Hotel Company." 

 "How much stock has he subscribed?" 

 "You will have to see Mr. Gamble about that." 

 "Did you take any?" 

 "Half a million." 

 "Humph! You could afford to. Now give me the straight of it, Courtney: Is it any use to talk to you?" 

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