But Mr. Witherbee had already lost it--completely lost it. He jumped up from his desk as though contemplating acts of violence upon the limbs and body of the broad, stoutish old man sitting in front of him; but he sheered off. Though old Judge Priest's lips kept right on smiling, his eyelids puckered down into a disconcerting little squint; and between them little menacing blue gleams flickered. Anyway, personal brawls, even in the sanctity of one's office, were very bad form and sometimes led to that publicity which is so distasteful to one engaged in large private enterprises. Mr. Witherbee had known the truth of this when his name had been Watkins and when it had been the Bland. Brothers' Investment Company, limited; and he knew it now when he was Witherbee & Company. So, as aforesaid, he sheered off. Retreating to his desk, he felt for a button. A buzzer whirred dimly in the wall like a rattlesnake's tail. An officeboy poked his head in instantly. “Herman,” ordered Mr. Witherbee, trembling with his passion, “you go down to the superintendent's office and tell him to send a special building officer here to me right away!” The boy's head vanished, and Mr. Witherbee swung back again on the judge, wagging a threatening forefinger at him. “Do you know what I'm going to do?” he asked. “Well, I'll tell you what I'm going to do--I'm going to have you chucked out of here bodily--that's what!” But he couldn't keep the quaver out of the threat. Somehow he was developing a growing fear of this imperturbable old man. “Now, son,” said Judge Priest, who hadn't moved, “I wouldn't do that if I was you. It might not be so healthy for you.” “Oh, you needn't be trying any of your cheap Southern gunplays round here,” warned Mr. Witherbee; but, in spite of his best efforts at control, his voice rose quivering at the suggestion. “Bless your heart, son!” said the judge soothingly, “I wouldn't think of usin' a gun on you any more'n I'd think of takin' a Winchester rifle to kill one of these here cockroaches! Son,” he said, rising now for the first time, “you come along here with me a minute--I want to show you something you ain't seen yet.” He walked to the door and opened it part way. Witherbee, wondering and apprehensive, followed him and looked over the old judge's shoulder into the anteroom. For J. Hayden Witherbee, one quick glance was enough. Four--no, five--five alert-looking young men, all plainly marked with the signs of a craft abhorrent to Mr. Witherbee, sat in a row of chairs beyond a railing; and beyond them was a sixth person, a young woman with a tiptilted nose and a pair of inquisitive, expectant gray eyes. Mr. Witherbee would have known them anywhere by their backs--jackals of the press, muckrakers, sworn enemies to Mr. Witherbee and all his kith and kind! It was Mr. Witherbee who slammed the door shut, drawing Judge Priest back into the shelter of the closed room; and it was Mr. Witherbee who made inquiry, tremulously, almost humbly: