Mr. Mix heard the scrape of chair-legs against the floor, and hastily, on tiptoe, he crossed the room to his original seat, and in passing the centre table he helped himself to a magazine which he was reading with much concentration when the door of the private office opened. "Why, hello, Mix," said Mr. Starkweather. "Been waitin' long? Be with you in half a second." "Just got here," said Mr. Mix, as though startled. He returned the magazine to the table, and was still standing when his friend came back, in convoy of young Mr. Robert Standish, his chief assistant. "Come on in, Mix. Want you to witness a will." "Anything to oblige," said Mr. Mix, with alacrity. He spoke cordially to young Mr. Standish and in another moment, to the lawyer. With due solemnity he carried out the function which was assigned to him; he would have loved a peep at the body of the documents, but already he was possessed of some very interesting information, and he kept his eyes religiously in the boat. Mr. Mix believed that in business and society, as well as in war, advance information is the basis of victory; and even while he was blotting his second signature, he was wondering how to capitalize what he had overheard. No inspiration came to him; so that methodically he stowed away the facts for reference. "Stay right here, Mix. That's all, ain't it, Mr. Archer?" "That's all." The lawyer was packing up his papers. "Good-morning, gentlemen." He bowed himself away; Standish had long since vanished. Mr. Starkweather mopped his face. "Hot, ain't it?" "You aren't looking so very fit," said Mr. Mix, critically. "Feel all right, do you?" Mr. Starkweather pulled himself together. "Sure," he said, but his voice lacked its usual heartiness. "I feel fine. Well, what can I do for you?" Mr. Mix, delaying only to close the door (and to see that it latched) began with a foreword which was followed by a preface and then by a prelude, but he had hardly reached the main introduction when Mr. Starkweather put up his hand. "To make a long story short, Mix--how much do you want?" Mr. Mix looked pained. "Why, to tide me over the dull season, John, I need--let's see--" He stole a glance at his friend, and doubled the ante. "About five thousand." Mr. Starkweather drummed on his desk. "Any security!" Mr. Mix smiled blandly. "What's security between friends? I'll give you a demand note." At length, Mr. Starkweather stopped drumming. "Mix, I don't quite get you.... You've had a good business; you must have made considerable money. You oughtn't be borrowin' from me; that's what your bank's for. You oughtn't be borrowin' money any way. You been too big a man to get in a hole like this. What's wrong--business rotten?" "_Too_ good," said Mr. Mix, frankly. "It's taking all my capital to carry my customers. And you know how tight money is." "Oh, yes. Well--I guess your credit's good for five, all right. When do you have to have it? Now?" "Any time that suits you, suits me."