After McGaw was well out of the building, Sears would have strolled aimlessly down into the sunshine--he never stayed in his room any more than was necessary--had he not come across the Secretary’s letter when he went to his desk to put away the notes he had just taken. He reread this document, with what is conveniently known as “mingled emotions.” That is to say, his impatience at the Secretary’s “nerve” diffused itself, as he read, in a vague inclination to know exactly what Barrows wanted him to do. He would not for anything have acknowledged, even to himself, that his two hours with McGaw had brought about this frame of mind, which in Sears was almost equivalent to mellowness. He preferred to think that Haydock’s opinions were worth respecting. But, nevertheless, it was McGaw with his pinched, hectic, angular, hunted personality, all sticking out of a scant, tightly-buttoned cutaway coat, that had induced Sears, by some curiously indirect mental process, to reread the letter in the first place. For, after all, Wolcott was a gentleman, if an extremely young one, and when he hurt people’s feelings, as he very often did, he always felt uncomfortable about it afterwards. Not that his discomfort brought him to the point of an apology,--some day, perhaps, it might. But then, if he ever became softened to that extent he probably wouldn’t offend any one in the first place. He read the Secretary’s business-like statements about the man whose breakfasts and luncheons and dinners were oatmeal, oatmeal, and oatmeal, and a little milk--condensed milk. But it was McGaw himself who managed to put the breath of life into the written pages, and make the man they told about seem any more vital than Charlemagne or Martin Luther; words alone rarely told Wolcott much. McGaw’s glowing cheek-bones, his drawn, sensitive mouth, and stringy clothes were pleading his own cause, unknown to himself, to Wolcott, or to the Secretary. Sears put down the letter and drew a sheet of the little note-paper to him. Then, after beating a preliminary tattoo, that sounded like the clicking of a telegraph instrument, with his pen, he wrote to Barrows: “I shall be glad to do what I can for your man; but you must tell me what it is you want me to do. Can I see you some time and talk it over?” On his way out to post the note, he met Haydock. “I bet you’d like to know what’s inside this, Haystack,” he said, thrusting the envelope into his friend’s face and chuckling inscrutably. Haydock looked at the address. “You’ll tell me some day,” he answered confidently. Wolcott jerked his note away. His reply was:-- “I’ll be damned if I do!” He meant what he said at the time because he knew Haydock was interested and thought he could tease him. As a rule, he found it impossible to tease Haydock, unless he pulled his hair or knocked him down. III