ent death, and wholly
indifferent to it, stood between the car tracks and halted the rush from
time to time, driving the people like sheep from one side to the other.
Through the doors of Ferguson's poured two conflicting streams of
humanity, and wistful groups of young women, on the way from hasty
lunches, blocked the pavements and stared at the finery behind the
plate-glass windows.

The rector, slowly making his way westward, permitted himself to be
thrust hither and thither, halted and shoved on again as he studied the
faces of the throng. And presently he found himself pocketed before one
of the exhibits of feminine interest, momentarily helpless, listening
to the admiring and envious chorus of a bevy of diminutive shop-girls
on the merits of a Paris gown. It was at this moment that he perceived,
pushing towards him with an air of rescue, the figure of his vestryman,
Mr. Wallis Plimpton.

"Well, well, well!" he cried, as he seized Hodder by the arm and pulled
him towards the curb. "What are you doing herein the marts of trade?
Come right along with me to the Eyrie, and we'll have something, to
eat."

The Eyrie was a famous lunch club, of limited membership, at the top of
the Parr Building, where financial affairs of the first importance were
discussed and settled.

Hodder explained that he had lunched at half-past twelve.

"Well, step into my office a minute. It does me good, to see you again,
upon my word, and I can't let you get by without a little pow-wow."

Mr. Plimpton's trust company, in Vine Street, resembled a Greek temple.
Massive but graceful granite columns adorned its front, while within it
was partitioned off with polished marble and ornamental grills. In the
rear, guarded by the desks and flanked by the compartments of various
subordinates, was the president's private sanctum, and into this holy of
holies Mr. Plimpton led the way with the simple, unassuming genial air
of the high priest of modern finance who understands men. The room
was eloquent almost to affectation of the system and order of great
business, inasmuch as it betrayed not the least sign of a workshop. On
the dark oak desk were two leather-bound books and a polished telephone.
The walls were panelled, there was a stone fireplace with andirons
set, a deep carpet spread over the tessellated floor, and three
leather-padded armchairs, one of which Mr. Plimpton hospitably drew
forward for the rector. He then produced a box of cigars.