"That's my best guess," says I. "I'll bet he'd eat it up. Spring it on him and see." "Perhaps I will when he's through," says J. Bayard. "There! They're going now." He was wrong: they was only startin' to go. They had to come back twice and look at something all over again, after which Gerald follows 'em to the door and holds it open for 'em while they exchange a few last words. So it's ten minutes or more before Steele has a chance to call him over, get him planted in the extra chair, and begin breakin' the news to him about Pyramid's batty will. And even after all them years Webb flushes pink in the ears at the mention of the name. "Oh, yes, Gordon," says he. "I--I did hold a position at one time in his office. Misunderstanding? Not at all. He treated me shamefully. Rank injustice, it was! He--he was by no means a gentleman, by no means!" "I hear you tried to assassinate him with a mop," says I. "I--I was not quite myself," says Gerald, colorin' still more. "You see, he put me in such a false position before those Chicago men; and when I tried to tell them the truth he--well, he acted brutally. I ask you, Mr. McCabe, what would you have done?" "Me?" says I. "I expect I'd slapped him rough on the wrist, or something like that. But you know he was always a little quick about such things, and when it was all over he was gen'rally sorry--if he had time. You see he remembered your case. Now the idea is, how can that little affair of yours be squared?" "It may have been a little affair to him," says Gerald, poutin' a bit sulky; "but it wasn't so to me. It--it changed my whole life--utterly!" "Of course," puts in J. Bayard soothin'. "We understand that, Mr. Webb." "But you've come out all right; you struck something just as good, or better, eh?" and I waves round at the teashop. "Course, you ain't catchin' the business here you might if you was located better. And I expect you feel like you was wastin' your talents on a place this size. But with a whole second floor near some of the big Fifth avenue department stores, where you could soak 'em half a dollar for a club sandwich and a quarter for a cup of tea,--a flossy, big joint with a hundred tables, real French waiters from Staten Island, and a genuine Hungarian orchestra, imported from East 176th street, where you could handle a line of Mexican drawnwork, and Navajo blankets, and Russian samovars, and----" "No, no!" breaks in Gerald peevish. "Stop!" "Eh?" says I, gawpin' at him. "If you are proposing all that as a--a recompense for being publicly humiliated," says he, "and having my career entirely spoiled--well, you just needn't, that's all. I do not care for anything of the kind." I gasps. Then I gazes foolish over at J. Bayard to see if he has anything to offer. He just scowls at me and shakes his head, as much as to say: "There, you see! You've messed things all up." "All right, Mr. Webb," says I. "Then you name it."