he week's work was practically over. All of my
clients were out of town--golfing, motoring, or playing poker at
Cedarhurst. There was nothing for me to do at the office but to indorse
half a dozen checks for deposit. I lit a cigar and looked out the window
of my cave down on the hurrying throng below. A resolute, never-pausing
stream of men plodded in each direction. Now and then others dashed out
of the doors of marble buildings and joined the crowd.

On the river ferryboats were darting here and there from shore to shore.
There was a bedlam of whistles, the thunder of steam winches, the clang
of surface cars, the rattle of typewriters. To what end? Down at the
curb my motor car was in waiting. I picked up my hat and passed into the
outer office.

"By the way, Hastings," I said casually as I went by his desk, "where
are you living now?"

He looked up smilingly.

"Pleasantdale--up Kensico way," he answered.

I shifted my feet and pulled once or twice on my cigar. I had taken a
strange resolve.

"Er--going to be in this afternoon?" I asked. "I'm off for a run and I
might drop in for a cup of tea about five o'clock."

"Oh, will you, sir!" he exclaimed with pleasure. "We shall be delighted.
Mine is the house at the crossroads--with the red roof."

"Well," said I, "you may see me--but don't keep your tea waiting."

As I shot uptown in my car I had almost the feeling of a coming
adventure. Hastings was a good sort! I respected him for his bluntness
of speech. At the cigar counter in the club I replenished my case.

Then I went into the reception room, where I found a bunch of
acquaintances sitting round the window. They hailed me boisterously.
What would I have to drink? I ordered a "Hannah Elias" and sank into a
chair. One of them was telling about the newest scandal in the divorce
line: The president of one of our largest trust companies had been
discovered to have been leading a double life--running an apartment on
the West Side for a haggard and _passee_ showgirl.

"You just tell me--I'd like to know--why a fellow like that makes such a
damned fool of himself! Salary of fifty thousand dollars a year! Big
house; high-class wife and family; yacht--everything anybody wants. Not
a drinking man either. It defeats me!" he said.

None of the group seemed able to suggest an answer. I had just tossed
off my "Hannah Elias."

"I think I know," I hazarded meditatively. They turned with one accord
and stared at me. "T