“That’s Flink, who made the corner in O. B.—­one of the longest-headed operators in the Chamber.  He is about the only man who dare try a hold with Jay Hawker.  And for some reason or another, though they have apparent tussles, Hawker rather favors him.  Five years ago he could just raise money enough to get into the Chamber.  Now he is reckoned at anywhere from five to ten millions.  I was at his home the other night.  Everybody was there.  I had a queer feeling, in all the magnificence, that the sheriff might be in there in ten days.  Yet he may own a good slice of the island in ten years.  His wife, whom I complimented, and who thanked me for coming, said she had invited none but the reshershy.”

“He looks like a rascal,” I ventured to remark.

“Oh, that is not a word used in the Chamber.  He is called a ‘daisy.’  I was put into his pew in church the other Sunday, and the preacher described him and his methods so exactly that I didn’t dare look at him.  When we came out he whispered, ’That was rather hard on Slack; he must have felt it.’  These men rather like that sort of preaching.”

“I don’t come here often,” Henderson resumed, as we walked away.  “The market is flat today.  There promised to be a little flurry in L. and P., and I looked in for a customer.”

We walked to his down-town club to lunch.  Everybody, I noticed, seemed to know Henderson, and his presence was hailed with a cordial smile, a good-humored nod, or a hearty grasp of the hand.  I never knew a more prepossessing man; his bonhomie was infectious.  Though his demeanor was perfectly quiet and modest, he carried the air of good-fellowship.  He was entirely frank, cordial, and had that sort of sincerity which one can afford to have who does not take life too seriously.  Tall—­at least six feet-with a well-shaped head set on square shoulders, brown hair inclined to curl, large blue eyes which could be merry or exceedingly grave, I thought him a picture of manly beauty.  Good-natured, clever, prosperous, and not yet thirty.  What a dower!

After we had disposed of our little matter of business, which I confess was not exactly satisfactory to me, although when I was told that “the first bondholders will be obliged to come in,” he added that “of course we shall take care of our friends,” we went to his bachelor quarters uptown.  “I want you to see,” he said, “how a hermit lives.”

The apartments were not my idea of a hermitage—­except in the city.  A charming library, spacious, but so full as to be cozy, with an open fire; chamber, dressing-room, and bathroom connecting, furnished with everything that a luxurious habit could suggest and good taste would not refuse, made a retreat that could almost reconcile a sinner to solitude.  There were a few good paintings, many rare engravings, on the walls, a notable absence, even in the sleeping-room, of photographs of actresses and professional beauties, but here and there souvenirs of travel and evidences