I stopped in the washroom of that Pullman; for I wanted a minute or so alone to think over things since George had spoken to me. He had hailed me, you see, as a sort of comrade; he’d counted on me being with him. Now I realized that after Doris had seen me at Caldon’s and then they both had seen me at the Blackstone and here on the train, they must have attached some significance to me. And it was becoming plain to me that they made it a friendly significance; at least, they did not put me down among their pursuers. Probably Doris recognized me, not in the sense that she knew me for Steve Fanneal, but in the far more decoying sense that she realized I had been her partner at the Flamingo Feather and that, therefore, she could count on me when she needed help in this emergency. I couldn’t decide how “Iron Age” had marked me down. He went forward through a couple of cars but evidently lost George in some washroom or compartment and he decided to give up George for the present--there was no danger in that; we were skimming along about sixty-five miles the hour. Anyway, “Iron Age” paid me the compliment of returning to me in the Pullman smoking room and he plumped himself down, emphatically, and went about the job of clearing up any doubts of me. “Now who are you?” he opened, with charming directness, a heavy hint of federal prison at Leavenworth lurking in his tone. I gave him my business card without making any fuss and he looked me over and reached, with a now-I’ve-got-you gesture, for a copy of the _Chicago Tribune_ which somebody had left on the leather seat. He turned to the produce market page and questioned me temptingly: “What do you do in the firm, Mr. Fanneal?” “Oh, I buy a little,” I admitted. “Overlook sales some.” “You buy butter, eggs and cheeses, for instance?” “Absolutely.” “Good. Now what was centralized Chicago yesterday?” he sprung at me. “What score?” I said; and he was sure I was stalling. “Ninety-three,” he mentioned. “Not quoted,” I told him. “Ninety-two, then!” he dared me. “That was blob, too. But ninety was forty-seven and a half; eighty-nine opened at forty-five and lifted a half. Ninety-three in New York was fifty-five and was a half higher in Philadelphia. Butter to Chicago retailers, best (ninety-two to ninety-four) tubs, fifty-three, prints one and a half more, cartons yet a half higher. Good tubs----” He held up a hand. I’d looked up butter, he, figured; so he skipped down the column. “Eggs?” he asked me. “Extras, first or miscellaneous?” I asked him. “Checks or dirties? Forty-eight to forty-nine, and down to twenty-five.” I shook him; but that bulldog jaw was not for nothing. He still held on. “Cheese!” he dared me. “Flats?” I came back at him. “Twins? Daisies? Double Daisies? Longhorns or square prints? And Chicago? Or Fond du Lac? New York or Philadelphia? Flats at Fond du Lac opened twenty-six and three quarters; twins----”