It seemed to George that this was a new kind of proposition coming in these dull times.

“Are you in earnest?” said he.

“I sure am,” said Hank.

Abrahams, who was over forty with an expanding waist-line, and Carolus, who was a creature dead when divorced from cities and the atmosphere of Art, laughed.

Hank cocked his eye at them. Then he rose to his feet. “I was joking,” said Hank, “believe I could make you ginks swallow anything. Well, I’m off, see you to-morrow.”

George du Cane followed him out.

In the street he linked arms with him.

“Where are you going?” asked Hank.

“Wherever you are,” said George.

“Well, I’m going to the office,” said Hank.

“I’ll go with you,” said George. “I’ve got an idea.”

11

11

“What’s your idea?” asked Hank.

“I’ll tell you when we get to your office,” replied George.

Fisher and Company’s offices were situated as near heaven as the ordinary American can hope to reach. An express elevator shot them out on a concrete-floored landing where the faint clacking of typewriters sounded from behind doors marked with the names of business firms. The Bolsover Trust Syndicate; Moss Muriatti and Moscovitch; Fisher and Co.

The Fisher offices consisted of two rooms, the outer room for a typewriter and an inner room for the company.

The company’s room contained four chairs and a desk-table, a roll-topped desk and a cuspidor. The bare walls were hung with maps of towns and 

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