"We-ll," said Archibald grudgingly. "So long as it's not sure that Bowring can spare me the money, let him take over a third if he wants to." "Sure I do," grinned the prospective buyer, highly elated, "and much obliged to you, too, Mr. Archibald. "That's all right," said that person gruffly. "Now then, Loring, come out of it! Time's flying. Where? When? How? Never saw an artist yet that could think on straight lines," he grumbled. "All of you get your money, meet at Mitchell's rooms. I'll let Post know and join you there later. We'll wait till dark, get a tried and acquitted notary of my acquaintance, slip around to Post's lair after dark and do the deed. I'll stand a ripping dinner for the bunch out of my ten per cent. Put deed on record to-morrow morning. That'll give him start enough. Is that all clear?" "Clear as a bell. I'm off!" said Archibald. "Archie's a good sort, but he does hate to let a dollar get by him." The artist laughed indulgently. "I say, Thompson, did you see how he stuck on letting you have a whack at it?" "Where do you bank?" inquired Mitchell. Steve told him where his money was deposited. Mitchell shook his head. "I was hoping we would go the same way, but I go uptown." Ten minutes after they left the industrious bookkeeper returned with navvies and draymen, and removed the office furniture to parts unknown. * * * * * When the four financiers got together in Mitchell's room Steve proposed to continue his lessons in the fascinating game of bridge. He drank freely and his game was the apotheosis of bumble-puppy. Archibald, his partner, was much irritated by his stupidity. A bellboy came to the door. A gentleman in the parlor would like to see Mr. Thompson. Mr. Thompson looked at the card. "Mr. A.W. Wyatt," he announced sneeringly. "You can tell Mr. A.W. Wyatt, if he wants to see me, he can just naturally mosey himself up here." "Not _the_ A.W. Wyatt--Anson Walworth Wyatt?" asked Loring. "I know him--I mean, I know him by sight." "I believe it is," said Steve with surly indifference. "If you know him, you know an overbearing jabberwock. He's head devil of the push that bought the Copperbottom and I don't like his style even a little bit. He seems to think I'm the dirt under his feet. I'll show him. I know what he wants, and that's the other fourth of my mine." He thumped the table viciously. "He'll pay for all he gets from _me_, I'll tell you that." Mr. Wyatt was ushered in; irreproachable, flawless, exquisite. ("It's him!" breathed Loring.) He remained standing, hat in hand, fitted his glass with vacuous care and surveyed the room with deliberately insolent scrutiny. Thompson kept his seat, fairly prickling with antagonism. The others rose with exemplary good breeding. "Aw!" said the newcomer, after an eloquent pause. "Mistah--er--Townsend, cawn I have a few moments of quite pwivate convehsation with you?"