ies
concerning the Bay Shore Company, to find out, if possible, who was
behind it and also to inquire concerning Barclay and Keene, the real
estate brokers of Milk Street.

The reply to my letter reached me on Friday. It was satisfactory,
eminently so. And when, on Saturday afternoon, Mr. Keene, bland and
smiling as ever, made his appearance at the house, I was ready for him.
I stood on the step and made no move to invite him within. "Well, Mr.
Paine," he said, cordially, "are you ready to talk business?"

"Quite ready," I answered.

He beamed with satisfaction.

"Good!" he exclaimed. "Then what is your figure?"

"My figure is a naught," I replied, with emphasis. "You may tell your
employer that I do not care to sell the land to him, no matter whether
he calls himself James Colton or the Bay Shore Development Company. Oh
yes; and, if you like, you may add that this particular cat declines to
be choked."

Mr. Keene showed signs of choking, himself, and I shut the door and left
him outside. Lute, who had been listening at the dining-room window and
had heard only fragments of the brief interview, was in a state of added
incoherence.

"Well, by time!" he gasped. "What--what sort of talk was that? Chokin' a
cat! A cat!! We ain't got no cat."

"Haven't we?" I observed. "Why, no, so we haven't! Perhaps you had
better explain that to Mr. Keene, Lute. It may help him to understand
the situation. And add that I suggest his telling the person who sent
him here that soft-soap is no improvement on butter."

I think Lute did tell him just that, doubtless with all sorts of excuses
for my insanity, for the next day, Sunday, as I walked along the beach,
a big body came ploughing down the sandy slope and joined me.

"Hello!" said Colton.

"Good morning," said I.

"How are independence and public spirit these days?"

"Very well, thank you. How are Development Companies developing?"

He put back his head and laughed. He did not seem a bit chagrined or
discomfited. The joke was on him, but he could enjoy it, nevertheless.
In spite of my antagonism toward this man I could not help admiring
certain traits of his character. He was big, in every way. Little
repulses or setbacks did not trouble him.

"Say," he said, "how did you know about that cat?"

"Saw his footprints," I replied. "They were all over the scheme. And
your friend Keene purred too loud."

"I don't mean that. Keene was a fool; that was plain enough for anyo