so that methodically he stowed
away the facts for reference.

"Stay right here, Mix. That's all, ain't it, Mr. Archer?"

"That's all." The lawyer was packing up his papers. "Good-morning,
gentlemen." He bowed himself away; Standish had long since vanished.

Mr. Starkweather mopped his face. "Hot, ain't it?"

"You aren't looking so very fit," said Mr. Mix, critically. "Feel all
right, do you?"

Mr. Starkweather pulled himself together. "Sure," he said, but his
voice lacked its usual heartiness. "I feel fine. Well, what can I do
for you?"

Mr. Mix, delaying only to close the door (and to see that it latched)
began with a foreword which was followed by a preface and then by a
prelude, but he had hardly reached the main introduction when Mr.
Starkweather put up his hand. "To make a long story short, Mix--how
much do you want?"

Mr. Mix looked pained. "Why, to tide me over the dull season, John, I
need--let's see--" He stole a glance at his friend, and doubled the
ante. "About five thousand."

Mr. Starkweather drummed on his desk. "Any security!"

Mr. Mix smiled blandly. "What's security between friends? I'll give
you a demand note."

At length, Mr. Starkweather stopped drumming. "Mix, I don't quite get
you.... You've had a good business; you must have made considerable
money. You oughtn't be borrowin' from me; that's what your bank's for.
You oughtn't be borrowin' money any way. You been too big a man to get
in a hole like this. What's wrong--business rotten?"

"_Too_ good," said Mr. Mix, frankly. "It's taking all my capital to
carry my customers. And you know how tight money is."

"Oh, yes. Well--I guess your credit's good for five, all right. When
do you have to have it? Now?"

"Any time that suits you, suits me."

Mr. Starkweather shook his head. "No, it don't, either. When a man
wants money, he _wants_ it. Wants it some particular day. When is
it?"

"Why, if you _could_ let me have it today, John, I'd appreciate it."

"Make out your note," said Mr. Starkweather, heavily, "Interest at six
percent, semi-annually. I'll have the cashier write you out a check."

Ten minutes later Mr. Mix, patting his breast pocket affectionately,
bestowed a paternal smile upon the girl at the wicket; and Mr.
Starkweather, alone in his office, drew a prodigious breath and
slumped down in his chair, and fell to gazing out over the roof-tops.

It was a fortnight, now, since Henry's last letter. He wished that
Henry woul