Dick, leaning back in his chair, inhaling the smoke of his cigarette, looked at the girl who sat beside Marriott’s desk, one leg crossed over the other, the tip of her patent-leather boot showing beneath her skirt, on her knee the pad on which she wrote in shorthand. The girl’s eyelashes trembled presently and a flush showed in her cheeks, spreading to her white throat and neck. Dick did not take his eyes from her. When Marriott finished, the girl left the room hurriedly. "Well, what’s the news?" asked Marriott. "Devilish fine-looking girl you’ve got there, old man!" said Dick, whose eyes had followed the stenographer. "She’s a good girl," said Marriott simply. Dick glanced again at the girl. Through the open door he could see her seating herself at her machine. Then he recalled himself and turned to Marriott. "Say, Bess was trying to get you by ’phone this morning." "Is that so?" said Marriott in a disappointed tone. "I was in court all morning." "Well, she said she’d give it up. She said that old man Koerner had left the hospital and gone home. He sent word to her that he wanted to see you." "Oh, yes," said Marriott, "about that case of his. I must attend to that, but I’ve been so busy." He glanced at his disordered desk, with its hopeless litter of papers. "Let’s see," he went on meditatively, "I guess"--he thought a moment, "I guess I might as well go out there this afternoon as any time. How far is it?" "Oh, it’s ’way out on Bolt Street." "What car do I take?" "Colorado Avenue, I think. I’ll go ’long, if you want me." "I’ll be delighted," said Marriott. He thought a moment longer, then closed his desk, and said, "We’ll go now." When they got off the elevator twelve floors below, Dick said: "I’ve got to have a drink before I start. Will you join me?" "I just had luncheon a while ago," said Marriott; "I don’t really--" "I never got to bed till morning," said Dick. "I sat in a little game at the club last night, and I’m all in." Marriott, amused by the youth’s pride in his dissipation, went with him to the café in the basement. Standing before the polished bar, with one foot on the brass rail, Dick said to the white-jacketed bartender: "I want a high-ball; you know my brand, George. What’s yours, Gordon?" "Oh, I’ll take the same." Marriott watched Dick pour a generous libation over the ice in the glass. "Don’t forget the imported soda," added Dick with an air of the utmost seriousness and importance, and the bartender, swiftly pulling the corks, said: "I wouldn’t forget you, Mr. Ward."