"Look here; I’ve got a sure thing. Eddie Fontaine gave it to us last night—in dead secrecy, of course. Worried it from the old man, and you know old man Fontaine is the real thing. The whole Atlantic Trust business was patched up at a conference yesterday afternoon. Majendie’s to get all the backing he needs." "Well, what of that?" "Why, you ignoramus, that means the banks have let up on the trust companies and are coming to the support of the market. Everything’s ’way down below where it ought to be. Stocks’ll go up twenty points in two weeks. I’ve taken another thousand of Northern Pacific myself. Better get in on it." "Thanks; I’ll circulate my money on a horse-race—something I know about. By the way, Majendie was there last night." "He was, was he?" said Lynch, with more animation. "How did he seem?" "Cool as a cucumber," said Beecher, who, however, was surprised to find how little he remembered of any one else’s conduct. "I was in at one of Mrs. Kildair’s affairs. By the way, Nan Charters was there." "Oh, was she?" said Lynch sleepily, hesitating between the call of his bedroom and the cooling aspect of the waiting grape-fruit. "Know anything about her?" asked Beecher, perceiving he would gain nothing by indirection. "Never met her," said Lynch. "Charlie Lorraine was crazy about her a couple of years ago. We thought he was going to marry her. I believe they were engaged, or had an understanding." "No scandal?" "Oh, she’s perfectly straight. Charlie’s a good proposition, but that didn’t seem to hurry her any. She has a lot of ’em buzzing after her." "I say, Bo," said Beecher suddenly, "did you ever run up against a fellow called Garraboy?" "What’s he do?" "He’s a broker." Lynch reflected, yawning behind his hand. His occupation in life was supposed to be stocks and bonds, according to the city register. "Nope, never heard of the fellow." "Who’d know at the club?" "Ask Jack Lindabury or Tom Bovee. Well, ta-ta; I’m going to sleep out a bit for the match. Tell Charles to default me to the manicure and the scalpist," said Lynch, who termed thus the prim, middle-aged person who had guaranteed to preserve his numbered hairs. "By the way, how about a little bet on the match? I’ll give you six to five." "Done for fifty," said Beecher obligingly. "See you at luncheon," said Lynch, who was soon heard plunging heavily into bed.