Clay discovered that one difficulty he had expected to meet did not complicate the problem.  The valet had left to select the goods for half a dozen custom-made shirts, Bromfield explained apologetically, apropos of the lack of service.  He would not return till late in the afternoon.

“I’ve come to see about that Bird Cage business, Mr. Bromfield,” his visitor explained.  “I’ve been millin’ it over in my mind, and I thought I’d put the proposition up to you the way it looks to me.”

Bromfield’s eyebrows lifted.  His face asked with supercilious politeness what the devil business it was of his.

“Mr. Whitford has put in twenty years of his life building up the Bird Cage into a good property.  It’s a one-man mine.  He made it out of a hole in the ground, developed it, expanded it, gave it a market value.  He’s always protected the stockholders and played the game square with them.  Don’t it look like he ought to stay in control of it?”

“Did he send you here to tell me that?”

“No, he didn’t.  But he’s gettin’ along in years, Bromfield.  It don’t look hardly right to me for you to step in and throw him out.  What do you think about it, yourself?”

The clubman flushed with anger.  “I think that it’s damned impertinent of you to come here meddling in my business.  I might have expected it.  You’ve always been an impertinent meddler.”

“Mebbeso,” agreed Clay serenely, showing no surprise at this explosion.  “But I’m here.  And I put a question.  Shall I ask it again?”

“No need.  I’m going to take what the law allows me—­what I and my friends have bought and paid for in the open market.  The more it hurts Whitford the better I’ll be pleased,” answered Bromfield, his manner of cynical indifference swept away by gathering rage.  The interference of this “bounder” filled him with a passion of impotent hate.

“Is that quite correct?  Did you buy control in the market?  In point of fact, aren’t you holdin’ a bunch of proxies because Whitford wrote and asked the stockholders to sign them for you to vote?  What you intend doing is a moral fraud, no matter what its legal aspect is.  You’d be swindling the very stockholders you claim to represent, as well as abusing the confidence of Whitford.”

“What you think isn’t of the least importance to me, Mr. Lindsay.  If you’re here merely to offer me your advice, I suppose I shall now have regretfully to say good-day.”  The New Yorker rose, a thin lip smile scarcely veiling his anger at this intruder who had brought his hopes to nothing.

“I reckon I’ll not hurry off, Mr. Bromfield,” Clay replied easily.  “You might think I was mad at you.  I’ll stick around awhile and talk this over.”

“Unfortunately I have an engagement,” retorted the other icily.

“When?”

“I really think, Mr. Lindsay, that is my business.”

“I’m makin’ it mine,” said Clay curtly.