awkward age; wore
one of those funny knit--'"

"I don't feel in a joking humour," Whitaker interrupted roughly. "It's a
serious matter and wants serious treatment.... What else have we got to
mull over?"

Drummond shrugged suavely. "There's enough to keep us busy for several
hours," he said. "For instance, there's my stewardship."

"Your which?"

"My care of your property. You left a good deal of money and securities
lying round loose, you know; naturally I felt obliged to look after 'em.
There was no telling when Widow Whitaker might walk in and demand an
accounting. I presume we might as well run over the account--though it
is getting late."

"Half-past four," Whitaker informed him, consulting his watch. "Take too
long for to-day. Some other time."

"To-morrow suit you?"

"To-morrow's Sunday," Whitaker objected. "But there's no hurry at all."

Drummond's reply was postponed by the office boy, who popped in on the
heels of a light knock.

"Mr. Max's outside," he announced.

"O the deuce!" The exclamation seemed to escape Drummond's lips
involuntarily. He tightened them angrily, as though regretting the lapse
of self-control, and glanced hurriedly askance to see if Whitaker had
noticed. "I'm busy," he added, a trace sullenly. "Tell him I've gone
out."

"But he's got 'nappointment," the boy protested. "And besides, I told
him you was in."

"You needn't fob him off on my account," Whitaker interposed. "We can
finish our confab later--Monday--any time. It's time for me to be
getting up-town, anyway."

"It isn't that," Drummond explained doggedly. "Only--the man's a bore,
and--"

"It isn't Jules Max?" Whitaker demanded excitedly. "Not little Jules
Max, who used to stage manage our amateur shows?"

"That's the man," Drummond admitted with plain reluctance.

"Then have him in, by all means. I want to say howdy to him, if nothing
more. And then I'll clear out and leave you to his troubles."

Drummond hesitated; whereupon the office boy, interpreting assent,
precipitately vanished to usher in the client. His employer laughed a
trifle sourly.

"Ben's a little too keen about pleasing Max," he said. "I think he looks
on him as the fountainhead of free seats. Max has developed into a
heavy-weight entrepreneur, you know."

"Meaning theatrical manager? Then why not say so? But I might've guessed
he'd drift into something of the sort."

A moment later Whitaker was vigorously pumping the unresisting--indeed