“Why not play the same game as Henderson?”

“I’ve thought it all out.  There’s no one but Donnelly.  Pick up anything you can about Warrington.”

“All right.  By the way, the boys want to know if you think we can pull off those ten-round bouts this winter.”

“I’m going down to the capital to see.”

Martin telephoned for his team, and twenty minutes later he was driving countryward.  McQuade dictated a few letters, one of which he directed to be sent by messenger.  Then he left the office and called upon the editor of the Times.  This conference lasted an hour.  McQuade was chief owner of the Times.

Warrington was greatly surprised when, at three-thirty, a message was brought to him requesting him briefly and politely to do Mr. McQuade the honor to call on him between four and five that afternoon.  He had met McQuade at the Chamber of Commerce dinner.  The introduction had been most formal.  What the deuce did McQuade wish to see him about?  Should he go?  A natural aversion to the man said no; but policy urged him as well as curiosity.  He went to the telephone and called up McQuade’s office.  Mr. McQuade was not in, but would return at four.  Ah!  It was the typewriter who spoke.  Would she kindly notify Mr. McQuade on his return that Mr. Warrington would be at his office at four-thirty?  She would.  Thanks.

Warrington smoked uneasily.  He had no desire to meet McQuade.  Their ways were widely separated and reached nothing in common.  But he readily recognized the fact that McQuade was not a man such as one might heedlessly antagonize.  What could the politician want of the literary man?  McQuade dabbled in racing horses; perhaps he had a horse to sell.  In that event, they would meet on common ground.  But his belief in this possibility was only half-hearted.  He filled his pockets with cigars, whistled for the dog, and departed.  Both of the Bennington houses were closed; the two families were up north in the woods.

Promptly at four-thirty Warrington and his dog entered the elevator of the McQuade Building and were dislodged on the third floor.  They went along the dim corridor, scrutinizing doors, each hunting for one of his kind.  Jove couldn’t read, but he could smell.  Finally Warrington came to a stand.  Upon the glass panel of the door he read: 

Daniel McQuade & Co.

General Contractors

He did not knock.  He opened the door and walked in.  It is a sign of weakness for a man to knock on the door of a business office, unless it is marked private, Nevertheless, the dingy glass had known the knock of many knuckles.  A girl was hammering on the typewriting machine.  She ceased only when she completed the page.  She looked up.  Her expression, on seeing who the visitor was, changed instantly.  It was not often that a man like this one entered the office of Daniel McQuade and Company, General Contractors.

“I have an appointment with Mr. McQuade,” said Warrington pleasantly; “would you mind announcing me?”