There were moments when he ceased to be a banker, when he was simply John Bagsbury; and then into his memory would come vivid patches of the old time, and he would realize how much he had counted on the friendship he had just broken. Those were unpleasant moments; they brought him even a sensation of physical discomfort, but they were infrequent and brief. In a moment he was again a mere strategist, studying his enemy’s position. With Sponley to fight, it was unlikely to be a question merely of strength. The Bear was sure to practise some wily deviltry or other, but there was no foreseeing what it would be; so John did his other work, and waited for the disagreeable scenes he felt sure were coming with the directors. He waited all day--it was Thursday--and all through two that followed; but no one came to remonstrate, or advise, or threaten; no one who came seemed to have any knowledge of the loan to Pickering. It was Sunday morning before anything of that sort happened. But if, on Friday afternoon, he had gone to the golf links, and there could have sat unobserved within earshot of a conversation which took place about dinner-time in a corner of the club-house veranda, he would have heard some interesting facts and would, perhaps, have been able to deduce some others. Mr. Cartwright and Mr. Meredith played golf together once a week. Mr. Cartwright played because he felt it to be his duty, and Mr. Meredith because Mr. Cartwright did. They played with much formality, and with proper regard for the conventions of dress and deportment; but, unhappily, with no great skill, and for this reason they chose Friday afternoon for their game. They would come out to the club-house at the hour when there were likely to be the fewest people about, sheepishly put on their golf clothes,--they were still as self-conscious in those absurd red coats and checked knickerbockers as youngsters who have just been promoted to long trousers,--and steal away to the most remote holes, where they would play vigorously for an hour or so. Then hastily they would get back into their wonted attire. They really enjoyed the rest of the afternoon. Finally, after dining on the veranda, they would go home together, as proud and boastful over their golf playing as they had been ashamed of it while in the act. The Friday of the week in which Pickering’s lard deal sprung into public notice was a hot day, especially for golf, and the two old men were unable to hide from each other the fact that they were glad when it was over. But the veranda, about sunset time, was pleasant enough to compensate, and they were dining there with the greatest satisfaction, when a man they knew invaded their privacy. He bowed to them from the doorway, and then, after hesitating a moment, came toward them and, drawing up a chair, seated himself at their table. His name was Myers, and he was a stockbroker.