"Sneaking snake in the grass," muttered the oldest director, yet without his wonted vim. "I'll telephone to McCurdy, right in the next block here," continued the largest director. "Might as well have this chap watched to-night and keep tight to him to-morrow until he shows up. We may find somebody's behind him." "'S my idea," said Breede, "some one b'ind him." "Grinning little ape!" remarked the oldest director bitterly. To Bean in the outer office came the facetious boy. "Telephone for Perfesser Bunker Hill Monument," he said, but spoiled it by laughing himself. It was extempore and had caught him unawares. The harried Bean fled to the telephone booth. "I wanted to tell you," began the flapper, "not to eat anything out of cans unless I just perfectly have it on my pure-food list. They poison people, but the dearest grocer gave me a list of all the safe things, made up by a regular committee that tells how much poison each thing has in it, so you can know right off, or alcohol either. Now, remember! Oh, yes, what was I going to say? Granny says the first glamour soon fades, but after that you just perfectly settle down to solid companionship. And oh, yes, I want you to let me just perfectly have my own way about those hangings for the drawing-room, because you see I know, and, oh, I had something else. No matter. Won't I be glad when the deal is adjusted in the interests of all concerned, as poor old Pops says. Why don't you tell me something? I'm just perfectly waiting to hear." "Uh, of course, of course; you're just perfectly a slinking gazelle. Ha, ha, ha!" answered Bean, laughing at his own jest after the manner of the office-boy. He was back making a feeble effort to finish the last of Breede's letters. He glanced mechanically at his notes. Above that routine work he had so many things to think about. He'd fixed Tully for good. Tully wouldn't try that "by the way" and "not impossible" stuff with _him_ any more. And that little old man--perfumery not used since the Chicago fire, or had he said the Mexican War? No matter. And talked to Breede about heifers. But there was the big-faced brute, speaking pretty seriously. Let him go free _to-night_! State's prison offence, maybe! Might be in jail this time to-morrow. Would the flapper telephone to him there? Send him unpoisoned canned food? Would he be disgraced? Breede--directors--glamour wearing off--slinking gazelles with yellow whiskers--rotten perfumery. So rushed the turbulent flood of his mind. But the letter was finished at last. Two days later a certain traffic manager of lines west of Chicago read a paragraph in this letter many times: