Bean would have sat forever on that bench of the mighty, world-forgetting, if not world-forgot.  But the departure of several of the men drew his attention to the supreme obligation of a guest.

“Well,” he said, rising.

“Look in on us again some day,” urged the Pitcher cordially.

“Thanks, I surely will,” said Bean.  “I like to forget business this way, now and then.  Good day!”

They waved him friendly adieus, and he was out where Paul waited.

“Forget business!” He had indeed for two hours forgotten business and people.  Not once had he thought of those waiting directors.

Well, they could do their worst, now.  He was ripe to laugh at any fate.  What was prison?  “The prisoner,” he seemed to read, “betrayed no consciousness of the enormity of his crime, and had, indeed, spent the morning at the Polo Grounds, chatting with various members of the Giants, with which team he is a great favourite.”

Let them bring their gyves.  Let the barred door clang shut!

“Office!” he said to Paul.  There was no doubt in Paul’s mind as to the quality of his patron.  He had at once recognized the Greatest Pitcher.  He ceased to speculate as to whether this assured young man owned the high office-building.  That was now of minor consequence.

On the way downtown he tried to remember what day it was.  He thought it was Friday, but again it seemed to be Monday.  He stopped the car and bought an afternoon paper to find out.

At the entrance to the big office-building he debated a moment.

“Wait!” he directed Paul.

He was uncertain how long he might be permitted to remain in that building.  If he must go to jail, he would ride.  He wondered if Paul knew the address of the best jail.  He could have things sent in to him—­magazines and fruit.

Inside the entrance he paused before the cigar-stand.  He must think carefully what he would say to those men of round millions.  He must keep up his front.  His glance roamed to the beautifully illustrated boxes of cigars.  A good idea!

“Gimme one those,” he said to the clerk, indicating a box that flaunted the polychrome portrait of a distinguished-looking Spaniard.  He was surprised at the price, but he bit the tip off violently and began to mouth it.

“I’m no penny-pincher,” he muttered, thinking of the cigar’s cost.  He tilted the cigar to a fearless angle and slanted his hat over his left eye.  He lolled against the cigar-case, gathering resolution for the ordeal.

The door of an elevator down the corridor shot open, and there emerged, in single file, a procession, headed by the little oldest director, who had allowed him to go free overnight.  They marched toward the door, looking straight ahead.  They must pass in front of him.  He felt a sudden great relief.  Something in their bearing told him they were powerless to restrict his liberty.