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“Yes, sir,” and the concentrated young man departed with the basket, feeling that he had quite capably borne his weight of responsibility.

Allison, looking particularly fresh and buoyant this morning, utilised his waiting time to the last fraction of a second. He put in a telephone call, and took from the drawer of his desk a packet of neatly docketed papers, an index memorandum book, a portfolio of sketches, and three cigars, the latter of which he put in his cigar case; then, his desk being empty, except for a clean memorandum pad and pencil, he closed it and locked it. The telephone girl reported his number on the wire, and, the number proving to be that of a florist, he ordered some violets sent to Gail Sargent.

Greggory walked in, a fat man with no trace of nonsense about him.

“Out for the day, Ed?” he surmised, gauging that probability by the gift of the letters.

“A month or so,” amended Allison, rising, and surveying the three articles on his desk calculatingly. “I’m going to take a vacation.”