announced that a gentleman of the name of Fisher had called to see George and was waiting in the sitting-room.

“What’s the time?” asked George.

“Half past seven, sir.”

George lay back with a groan.

“Show him right in here,” said he.

George, on parting from Hank the day before, had dined with some friends at the Palatial. Released from the hypnotism of the town lot speculator, he had begun to cool ever so slightly over the Vanderdecken business. The cooling had gone on during sleep. Awakened, an hour before his usual time, to the ordinary facts of life, his feet were frankly cold. Shultz, the man he had dined with at the Palatial, was going off to the Rockies on a shooting expedition and had asked him to join. There would be plenty of fun and plenty of sport—yet he had to refuse.

But there was something more than that, Farintosh. The absolutely sane and correct Farintosh acted as an underscore to the whole of this business. Farintosh, whose lips rarely said more than “Yes, sir,” or “No, sir,” was voiceful in all sorts of subtle ways, as, for instance, when he had announced a “gentleman of the name of Fisher.”

38

38

Entered Hank, suddenly, backed by Farintosh, who closed the door on the pair.

“Say, Bud, ain’t you up yet?” cried Hank. “Why, I’ve been running round since five. Say—shall I pull the blinds?” He pulled them up, letting in a blaze of early sunlight. Then he looked round the room, took in its magnificence and seemed to wilt a bit. He sat down on a chair.

“Who’s the old boy with the whiskers?” he asked.

George explained, yawning, and Hank, without waiting to hear him out, went on. He seemed suddenly to have recovered his confidence in himself; the radium-like activity of his mind broke forth, and he talked the other out of bed, into the bathroom and through his bathing and shaving operations. If you had been listening, you would have heard George’s contributions to the conversation, at first monosyllabic, then in words of more than one syllable, then in 

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