Now, with much the excitement of a shoal of minnows to whose pool a pickerel has found ingress, the club’s Governors were seeking to correct their error of negligence. A committee had been appointed to take semi-formal testimony in the case, to overrule whatsoever defense Conover might seek to make and to report to the Board in favor of the unwelcome member’s rejection. The exact mode of transaction was out of rule, from a standpoint of rigid club standards. But the Arareek, as its members boasted, was less an actual club than a phase of local society, and as such was a law unto itself. On the veranda, as Caleb arrived, several members were seated, watching a putting match on the “green” that stretched betwixt porch and tennis courts. One or two women were among the onlookers. From the awkward hush that fell on the group as he ascended the steps, Conover deduced the trend of the talk his presence had checked. He glanced in grim amusement from one averted or expressionless face to another; then, singling out Caine with a nod, passed in through the low, broad doorway. Caine tossed away his cigarette, smiled non-committally in reply to a bevy of questioning looks, and followed his protegée into the building. “They’re waiting for you,” said he, catching up with Conover. “The Committee went to its room five minutes ago, pacing in single file like the Court of Priests in _Aida_. Can’t you manage to tremble a little? It seems hard that so much really excellent pomposity should be wasted on a man who doesn’t care. Why are you late?” “I’m always late to an appointment,” answered Conover. “Make the other fellow do the waitin’. Don’t do it yourself. Lots of time saved that way.” Caine threw open a door and ushered Caleb into a room where a dozen or more men were seated about a long table. Bowing carelessly to the members in general, Caine took a seat at the table, and motioned Conover toward a chair that had been placed for the purpose at the lower end of the apartment. Conover, disregarding the gesture, slouched across to a larger, more comfortable leather chair, pulled it to the window, flung himself into the seat, his back to the strong afternoon light, and drew out a cigar. “Now then, gentlemen,” he ordered curtly, as he struck a match on his sole. “Be as brief as you can. My time’s worth money. What do you want of me?” A murmur--almost a stifled gasp--went around the table, at the contempt in his action and words. There was an embarrassed pause. Then, Reuben Standish, as Chairman of the Committee, rose, gray and portentous, and turned toward Caleb. “Mr. Conover,” he began, “Certain statements,--charges, in fact,--have been made to the Committee, relative to yourself. It is your right to hear them in detail. I will now read--” “Never mind that!” commanded Conover. “Just give the gist of the thing. Cut out the details.”