The distractions to which he referred were, of course, the recent and mysterious machinations of Raish Pulcifer.  And he was to be again distracted that very afternoon.  For as, after parting with Howard, he was walking slowly along the main road, pondering deeply upon the problem presented by the love affair of his two young friends and its spirit complications, he was awakened from his reverie by a series of sharp clicks close at his ear.  He started, looked up and about, and saw that he was directly opposite the business office of the great Horatio.  He heard the clicks again and realized that they were caused by the tapping of the windowpane by a ring upon a masculine finger.  The ring appeared to be—­but was not—­a mammoth pigeon-blood ruby and it ornamented, or set off, the hand of Mr. Pulcifer himself.

Galusha stared uncomprehendingly at the hand and ring.  Then the hand beckoned frantically.  Mr. Bangs raised his eyes and saw, through the dingy pane, the face of the owner of the hand.  The lower portion of the face was in eager motion.  “Come in,” Mr. Pulcifer was whispering.  “Come on in!”

Galusha wonderingly entered the office.  He had no desire for conversation with its proprietor, but he was curious to know what the latter wanted.

“Ah—­good-afternoon, Mr. Pulcifer,” he said.

Raish did not answer immediately.  His first move was to cross to the door by which his visitor had entered, close and lock it.  His next was to lower the window shade a trifle.  Then he turned and smiled—­nay, beamed upon that visitor.

“Set down, set down, Perfessor,” he urged, with great cordiality.  “Well, well, well!  It’s good to see you again, be hanged if it ain’t now!  How’s things down to the bluffs?  Joggin’ along, joggin’ along in the same old rut, the way the feller with the wheelbarrer went to market?  Eh?  Haw, haw, haw!  Have a cigar, Perfessor?”

Galusha declined the cigar.  He would also have declined the invitation to sit, but Mr. Pulcifer would not hear of it.  He all but forced his caller into a chair.

“Set down,” he insisted.  “Just as cheap settin’ as standin’ and consider’ble lighter on shoe leather, as the feller said.  Haw, haw!  Hey?  Yes, indeed.  Er—­ Have a cigar?”

But Galusha was still resolute as far as the cigar was concerned.  Raish lighted one himself and puffed briskly.  To a keen observer he might have appeared a trifle nervous.  Galusha was not a particularly keen observer and, moreover, he was nervous himself.  If there had been no other reason, close proximity to a Raish Pulcifer cigar was, to a sensitive person, sufficient cause for nervousness.

Mr. Pulcifer continued to talk and talk and talk, of the weather, of the profits of the summer season just past, of all sorts of trivialities.  Mr. Bangs’ nervousness increased.  He fidgeted in his chair.

“Really,” he stammered, “I—­I fear I must be going.  You will excuse me, I hope, but—­ah—­I must, really.”