--which saw not--on a
flashlight photograph of the last bankers' association banquet. He
cleared his throat vigorously.

"It's worse than that. Jim--" He paused.

"Yes?"

"Jim, you don't happen to know any one with a job--living salary
attached--concealed about his person, do you?"

"What!"

Jim whirled around in his swivel chair and stared hard at David's back.
David continued his regard of the bankers' association banquet. "This
is you in the corner, isn't it?-- Because, if you know of any such job
I'd be glad to take it over."

"In your own line, of course?"

"In any line. Preferably _not_ in my line."

"But--good lord, man! You're not losing your nerve, are you--just
because business has slumped a little? What about your profession?"

"As to that," David cleared his throat again, "as to that, I think we
may say--safely--I haven't made good."

"Oh, piffle! You're too young a man to say a fool thing like that. If
it's this note that's bothering you--" He stopped, because David had
turned and Jim saw his eyes.

"The note is only part of it. But, if you don't mind, we'll not
discuss it. I'll be glad if you can help me out. And I'll try to cut
this loan down a little next time--somehow. I'll not keep you any
longer now." David moved toward the door. "Remember us to Mrs. Jim,
won't you?" And he went hastily out.

"Why, damn it!" muttered Jim, left alone. "This is bad. This is
entirely too bad."

David went to a long weary day at his office, where he had nothing to
do but sit at his desk and gaze into space. Shirley was mistaken. Her
words had not been filed away in the remote pigeonhole, "To Be
Forgotten."

For a while Jim stared frowningly at the crumpled note in his hand.
Then he began a long series of telephone calls.

The thing was still on his mind that evening when Mrs. Jim descended
from the children's dormitory and silence reigned at last through the
house.

"You might as well out with it now as later," she observed, as she took
up her sewing. "What has been bothering you all evening?"

"I've been congratulating myself on my cleverness in the matter of
choosing a wife."

Mrs. Jim surveyed him suspiciously. "What put that into your head?"

"Davy Quentin--by way of contrast, I suppose."

"What about Davy?"

"I'm afraid he's got into a pretty sour pickle."

"He's been there for four years. Though he didn't always know it.
What is the particular development now?"