Sponley laughed. “That’s a bit radical; in fact, it’s irregular. A director is generally supposed to have a right to know about a thing like that. But then I can understand that there are times when a banker doesn’t want his directors to bother him--till afterward. But I don’t insist on my status as a director. I repeat the question as Melville Sponley.” “That’s somewhat different.” Sponley eyed him alertly, expecting that he would go on. But John showed no sign of any such intention. He was sitting quite still in his chair--lazily is perhaps a better word--and his eyes were shut. “Don’t you think,” the Bear asked evenly, “that this fencing is a waste of time? I have asked you what you mean to do about Pickering. I’d like to have you tell me.” After another moment of silence John replied, but with a question:-- “What do you know about Pickering? Or, rather, how do you know that there is anything for me to tell you?” Not until that moment did Sponley realize that here was a man who could match him at his own game. He discovered the fact when he found himself sitting bolt upright, his muscles drawn taut, a sharp reply on the end of his tongue. He dropped back into his chair and said patiently,-- “I did just what every other man in the city who has the smallest interest in commercial matters did before ten o’clock this morning, I read the story in the _Herald_.” “You accused me a minute ago of fencing with you,” John spoke quickly; “I was not fencing. I was a little in doubt as to just where we stood, and I asked questions to find out. But when you tell me that all you know about the Pickering deal is what you read in the _Herald_, you are--evading. The story mentioned neither me nor my bank.” “For the last twenty years, or thereabouts, we’ve called each other friends,” said Sponley, thoughtfully. “Neither of us take much stock in gush, and I shan’t begin at it now. But we’ve found we can help each other, and that it has paid to hang together. How much more it means than that there’s no good discussing. I think the mere question of self-interest ought to make it clear to you where we stand. “Regarding what I know about Pickering,” he went on, “I tell you frankly that I know more than was in the paper. I know that you loaned him half a million dollars, and that you took his lard as security. I’m not at liberty to tell how I found that out.” “There was a time to-day,” said John, quietly, “when if I could have got hold of the man who had sold that information, I think I would have strangled him. I don’t feel that way now, though.” “It wouldn’t help you if I were to tell you the name of my informant. You couldn’t trace it through him. Have you thought,--I don’t like to say anything of this kind on just a guess, but this matter’s serious enough to warrant it,--have you thought of young Dorlin in that connection?” John smiled. “No,” he said dryly; “it wasn’t Dorlin.”