vely:

"Very well, I will see him."

But in his own private office the President would be apt to run his
fingers along the inside of his collar, as though it choked him,
muttering, "Damn this business!" before he pushed his bell and ordered
in his visitor.

Mr. Constable was subjected to another constant annoyance. Several of
the daily papers invariably coupled his name with some reference to the
Horton case. A paragraph announcing his election to a trusteeship would
identify him as "_the President of the Hydroid Fibre Co., who recently
had a most unfortunate experience with a Notary Public now serving
sentence in Sing Sing_." Or, if his name appeared in some list, the
paragrapher would add: "_Mr. Constable, it will be remembered, disposed
of quite a serious charge in the Hydroid Fibre matter, some of the
parties now being in Sing Sing_."

It was incessant, intolerable, and intangible.

But one evening, in an after-dinner chat, Mr. Glenning had a short,
whispered conference about the matter with a city official, and the city
official dropped a hint next day to his advertising agent which must
have reached the city editors, for the "squibbing" stopped. However,
when Mr. Constable resigned from the Presidency of the Hydroid Fibre
Co., the paragraphers took occasion to revive the whole story.

Then, as though tired of being in the public eye, Mr. Constable began to
resign his trusteeships one after another, until his partners took alarm
and vigorously protested.

"I'm not well," he answered, "and I don't want so much responsibility."

"But what about the business?" suggested Mr. Glenning.

Then Mr. Constable astounded them.

"Let me retire," he answered wearily.

But Mr. Constable's partners did not propose to have the business
sacrificed in any such way. They would not hear of his retirement, and
when he insisted, Mr. Hertzog remarked very pointedly that he did not
presume to understand this gentle resignation business, but if there was
any little game on hand he proposed to be in it for the next three years
at least. About money matters Mr. Hertzog cherished no illusions, and at
the word dollar Hester Street instantly reclaimed him.

There was no "little game," Mr. Constable hastened to assure him. It was
simply that he could not do justice to the firm or himself. He was a
sick man--a very sick man.

"Then take a vacation. Go into the country and stay as long as you like,
but drop this retirement nonsense