"I just received your note a bit ago," he began perfunctorily, "and called instead of giving you an appointment, as you asked. It's the least I could do after last night." He halted, looking at the building opposite steadily. "I want you to know that I appreciate thoroughly what you did for me then. I--I'm heartily ashamed, of course." "Don't speak of it, please," swiftly. "I've forgotten it and I'm sure Miss Gleason and her father have done the same. No one else knows, so let's consider it never occurred. It never will again, I'm sure, so what's the use of remembering? Is it agreed?" Armstrong's narrow shoulders lifted in silence. "As for not speaking of it again," he answered after a moment, "yes. Whether or not in the future, however--I'm not liar enough to promise things I can't deliver." "But you can 'deliver,' as you say," shortly. "You know it yourself." Armstrong shook his head. "I'm not as bumptious as I was a few years ago," he commented. "I'd have said 'yes' then undoubtedly. Now--I don't know." Roberts swung about in his desk chair, the crease between his eyes suddenly grown deep. "Nonsense," he refuted curtly. "You're not the first man in the world who has done something to regret. Every one has in some way or another--and profited by the experience. It's forgotten already, I say, man. Let it pass at that, and go ahead as though nothing had happened. By the way, have you had supper--or do you call it dinner?" For the first time Armstrong looked at the speaker and, forgetting for the instant, he almost smiled. The question was characteristic. "I've already dined, thank you," he said. Without comment Roberts called up the _cafe_ and ordered delivered his customary busy-day lunch of sandwiches and coffee. "I'm going East on the eleven-fifty limited to-night," he explained, "and there are several things I've got to see to first." In voluntary relaxation from work he slipped down in the big chair until his head rested on the back. Thereafter for a long time, for longer doubtless than he realized, he sat so, looking at the other man; not rudely or unpleasantly, but with the old, absent, analytical expression large upon his face. At last he roused. "I suppose," he began abruptly, "you're wondering what it is I wish to speak with you about. I'll explain in advance that it's of your personal affairs purely, nothing else. Would you prefer me not to intrude?" For a moment Armstrong did not answer, but with an effort he looked at the questioner directly. "If it were a couple of days back," he said, "I should have answered 'yes' emphatically. Now--" his glance wandered out the window, resting on the brick wall opposite, "now I hardly know. You've earned a sort of right to wield the probe; and besides--" "Never mind the right," shortly. "I tell you last night is forgotten. I meant to see you and have the same talk anyway--with your permission."