," said O'Hara insolently.

Plank reddened, and, after a moment: "I should be glad to, if he cares
to know me."

"Mortimer doesn't care for him, but he's an awfully good fellow, all
the same," said Fleetwood, turning to Plank; "he's been an ass, but who
hasn't? I like him tremendously, and I feel very bad over the mess he
made of it after that crazy dinner I gave in my rooms. What? You hadn't
heard of it? Why man, it's the talk of the clubs."

"I suppose that is why I haven't heard," said Plank simply; "my
club-life is still in the future."

"Oh!" said Fleetwood with an involuntary stare, surprised, a trifle
uncomfortable, yet somehow liking Plank, and not understanding why.

"I'm not in anything, you see; I'm only up for the Patroons and the
Lenox," added Plank gravely.

"I see. Certainly. Er--hope you'll make 'em; hope to see you there soon.
Er--I see by the papers you've been jollying the clergy, Mr. Plank.
Awfully handsome of you, all that chapel business. I say: I've a
cousin--er--young architect; Beaux Arts, and all that--just over. I'd
awfully like to have him given a chance at that competition; invited to
try, you see. I don't suppose it could be managed, now--"

"Would you like to have me ask the bishops?" inquired Plank, naively
shrewd. And the conversation became very cordial between the two, which
Mortimer observed, keeping one ironical eye on Plank, while he continued
a desultory discussion with O'Hara concerning a very private dinner
which somebody told somebody that somebody had given to Quarrier and the
Inter-County Electric people; which, if true, plainly indicated who was
financing the Inter-County scheme, and why Amalgamated stock had tumbled
again yesterday, and what might be looked for from the Algonquin Trust
Company's president.

"Amalgamated Electric doesn't seem to like it a little bit," said
O'Hara. "Ferrall, Belwether, and Siward are in it up to their necks; and
if Quarrier is really the god in the machine, and if he really is doing
stunts with Amalgamated Electric, and is also mixing feet with the
Inter-County crowd, why, he is virtually paralleling his own road;
and why, in the name of common sense, is he doing that? He'll kill it;
that's what he'll do."

"He can afford to kill it," observed Mortimer, punching the electric
button and making a significant gesture toward his empty glass as the
servant entered; "a man like Quarrier can afford to kill anything."

"Yes; but why kill A