"Do you recall that you were going to put in a day's shooting with me this fall? I write to tell you that the ducks are just on their flight. I killed over forty in two hours' shooting one day last week, over half of them redheads. Can't you meet me at my office at three to-morrow, and run out for the night? "Your sincere friend, "Richard Gordon." Palmer set down his cup of coffee untasted. "By Jove!" he exclaimed, "that's really very decent of Gordon. I didn't know the ducks were flying like that. Yes, Morton, telephone him I'll go with pleasure. And, Morton, get Smith to pack my shooting things, and look over my gun, and put in about two hundred shells, number six shot. Yes, by gad, I'll go." Deep down in his heart, although he would not have admitted it, and indeed was perhaps hardly aware of it, Palmer had an immense admiration for Gordon, doubtless based on the fact that Gordon did those things best which Palmer himself would most have liked to do well. Palmer's game of bridge was mediocre. Gordon's was masterly. Palmer played a passable game of golf, sometimes brilliant, always dangerously erratic. Gordon's steadiness had won him a rating among the first dozen on the state handicap list. Palmer could always bring home a fair bag of ducks, shooting being perhaps his greatest enthusiasm, but Gordon's clean right and left kills were little short of wonderful in their precision. Of course, as regarded popularity, Palmer had by far the greater number of hangers-on, retainers, satellites,--friends, he chose to call them--for when a genuine multimillionaire turns out to be a lavish spender as well, the combination furnishes unusual opportunities to those wise in their generation, and yet somehow the men whose friendship Palmer would most have liked, while always civil to him, never seemed to treat him in just the same way they did Gordon. Thus the prospect of a day at Gordon's shooting-box, sure of good shooting and a pleasant time generally, startled him a little out of his usual calm, and three o'clock found him at the door of Gordon's modest office. Gordon came forward to meet him, his face troubled, a telegram in his hand.