He slid indifferently over the account of a disastrous fire along the water-front of an American port from which heavily laden ships departed almost daily for French and English destinations. He knew all about _that_. Elberon was not at his place of business. This defection on the part of Elberon exasperated him. It was a new sensation. He could not account for the sudden and admittedly unreasonable sense of irritation that assailed him, for, after all, Elberon regulated his actions according to the demands of his own business. The merchant's secretary announced that he doubted if his employer would be in the office before noon. He thought he had gone Christmas shopping with his wife. “Damn Christmas!” muttered Zimmerlein as he closed the door behind him and stalked off into the counter-lined aisles that led by rectangular turns to the street. The business of the night just ended had got on his nerves. His hand shook a little as he paused inside the doors to light a cigarette. It was a bad “business”; there was no use trying to make light of it. Miss Mildred Agnew welcomed him with a cheery “Good morning,” and the alert office-boy went her one better by adding the information that it was “a fine day, sir.” “Any messages, Miss Agnew?” inquired Zimmerlein. “A telephone call, sir, from the steward of the Black Downs Country Club. He says there is a leak and wants to know if you, as chairman of the house committee, will do something about it right away.” “A leak?” he demanded, stopping short. “So he said, Mr. Zimmerlein.” “Get him on the telephone and ask him to come in and see me at once.” He was frowning darkly as the office-boy relieved him of his hat and coat and hung them up in the closet. His mail received scant attention. As a matter of fact, he swept the pile aside and touched a button on the corner of the desk. Thorsensel came into the private office, carrying a roll of blue-prints. “Any word?” asked Zimmerlein, as the other carefully and deliberately spread the prints on the desk and weighted one end of them down with a heavy steel ruler. “No. Not a word.” “It's--it's rather queer, don't you think?” “You are nervous, Zimmerlein,” said Thorsensel, after a moment in which he studied the other with a keen and soul-searching eye. “It won't do, my friend. Nervousness tends to irritation, and irritation leads to impatience. You know what happens to the impatient, Zimmerlein.” “Damn it all, I _am_ nervous. I admit it. Don't lecture me. I'm not going to lose my grit,--or my head either.” “You can't lose one without the other, you know,” remarked Thorsensel sententiously. “What do you suppose has happened?” “Nothing,--nothing at all,” said the other. “You mean that--that they didn't pull it off? God, that is the very worst that could have happened.”