Walsh took off his hat and caressed his bald head. Then he threw up a section of his glass cage that looked out upon the street and bade a truck driver stop beating his horses. He dominated his establishment like the captain of a ship, his office serving as a bridge. A clear tenor voice, singing a ballad, rose from the wareroom below. Walsh touched a button and when the chief shipping-clerk appeared bade him discharge the singer at once. “Chuck him! I warned him myself I wouldn’t stand for it.” “I hope it’s the one that guyed my clothes as I came up,” said Wingfield. “My spats seemed to pain him; he was painting things with a brush.” “He’s the one,” growled Walsh. “I’ll let his voice rest for a week and then I’m going to put him on the road. He’s the likeliest colt on the place.” “Fire him first, then promote him?” asked Wingfield. “Yep. But I don’t make a fixed rule of takin’ ’em back. Fired the office boy last week and he’ll stay fired--hung a couple of these ‘Get Busy,’ ‘Keep on smiling,’ signs over my desk. Well, where’s Wayne now?” he demanded. “He went to his office this morning after breakfasting with me and didn’t show up at the Club for lunch--he’ll probably be there for dinner--there’s nobody at home, you know. The Colonel took his bride to Boston to hear him deliver his oration.” “Mrs. Craighill went to Boston?” “Why, certainly.” “I guess not,” said Walsh; “she’s home--hasn’t been out of town.” “Wayne didn’t know it; he thought they both went.” “They didn’t; I’m quite positive. Very likely Wayne didn’t know. They may have intended going together and then something happened and Mrs. Craighill stayed at home.” “I didn’t know you were so thick with the family. One might think you and Mrs. Craighill were on telephonic terms of intimacy.” “No; hardly that. I haven’t heard from her but I know she’s in town. My information may be private and exclusive; I guess most likely it is.” “Where does that leave us?” “It doesn’t leave us anywhere; it just brings us to the starting point!” It was hot in the glass box and Wingfield fanned himself with his hat. Since the night of Mrs. Blair’s reception, at which he and Walsh had spoken of Wayne with a common understanding and sympathy, Walsh had been much in his thoughts. Wingfield was a student of character and it pleased him to think that in this grim, bald old fellow he had discovered a type. Walsh’s traits were of a sort to appeal to him and now that he was learning that Walsh gathered information through secret and mysterious channels, his liking warmed to admiration. It was precisely this sort of thing that Wingfield liked to do himself. He took off his ulster and drew his chair closer. “Do you mean----”