“Bless my soul!” ejaculated that person, when he had read a few lines.  His eyes dropped to the signature.  “Oh—­the Judge!” he said, enlightened, and read on, chuckling.

He wheeled his chair around.  “Well, Mr. Thompson, what is it—­fine or bail?” he queried.

“I want to borrow a man,” Steve began mildly.  Here he was interrupted.  The ante-room door opened.  One entered—­no, floated in—­faultlessly arrayed, with an air at once languid and gloomy.

“Wyatt!” said Atwood, cordially.  “Man!  You’re good for sore eyes!  What fair wind blows you here?”

Wyatt sank into a chair.  “Doldwums.  Nothing at all,” he said listlessly.  “Mewest chawnce, I assuah you.  Fawct is, I was—­er—­howwidly boahed, y’ know.  It’s no good.  All of it!” He spread out his immaculate pink palm in a comprehensive gesture.  “All wot!—­Dinnahs and dawnces and bwidge, the hawse-show—­and—­ah—­all the west of it.—­Vahnity fawr, y’ know.  If you have whatevah you want diwectly, of cow’se you cawnt want anything you daunt have, y’ know.  Doocid unpleasant.  I find myself like the boy that wanted to leah’n to shivah and shake, y’ know.  Needin’ the excitement of what this fellah—­ah—­at Washington, y’ know—­Woosevelt!—­of what Woosevelt calls the stwenuous life.  Saht in the club thinkin’ it ovah, and decided to sally fowth to seek adventuah——­”

“Adventure!  You?” Atwood threw back his head and roared.

“—­adventuah.  In a hansom,” returned the new-comer placidly.  “So the dwivah ahsked me ‘Whah to?’ y’ know.  I was feelin’ nawsty enough, so I told him ’To pwugatowy!—­like that!  He was—­ah—­a vewy litewal-minded puhson.”  There was a faint flicker of amusement in his gray eyes.  “He—­ah—­bwought me to the Stock Exchange.  Aftah I got out, y’ know, I wemembahed that you—­ah—­did something heah.  So I thought I’d just wun ovah and see you.”  He relapsed into moody silence.

“You’ve come to the right shop, I do believe,” said Atwood.  “Mr. Thompson, let me make you acquainted with my old friend Wyatt.”

“Chawmed, I’m suah!” muttered Wyatt, adjusting his monocle.

“You have probably heard of him,” pursued Atwood.  “He appears regularly in the Sunday Supplements as a Horrible Example—­Anson Walworth Wyatt, nephew to his uncle.  But for all he seems such a silly, supercilious ass, he’s a good old chap at heart, a ‘weal’ lion in an ass-skin.  Mr. Thompson, have I permission to share this letter with my friend?”

“Why not?” said Steve.

“This is a Western man’s business letter,” explained Atwood.  The clubman listened with a well-bred stony stare.

“Aw!” he said.  “How vewy extwaohdinawy!”

“Now, old fellow, Mr. Thompson was just about to negotiate the loan of a man from me when you came.  Here we have the adventure seeking the man, and the man seeking the adventure.  It sounds promising.  Of course, I shall expect a commission both ways.  Now give us your plans and specifications, Mr. Thompson.”