[Illustration:  “Oh, put up your trinkets!” said Bean, with a fine affectation of weariness]

He had not meant to call Tully that.  It rushed out.  Tully wriggled uneasily in his chair at the desk, blushed well into his yellow beard, then drew out a kerchief of purest white silk and began nervously to polish his glasses.

“Hoo-shaw-Ha-ha-Hooshway!”

It was Breede, with, for the moment, a second purple face on the Board of Directors.  Neither Bean nor Tully ever knew whether he had suppressed a laugh or a sneeze.

“Come, come, come!” broke in the oldest, sweeping the largest director aside with one finger as he pulled a chair to the table.

“This’ll never do with us, you know!  How much, how much, how much?”

He again poised the chastely wrought fountain pen of gold above the dainty check-book in Morocco leather.

“Have to give ’em up you know; can’t allow that sort of underhand work; where’d the world be, where’d it be, where’d it be?  Sign an order; tell me what you paid.  Take your word for it!”

He was feeling for Bean the contempt which a really distinguished safe-blower is said to feel for the cheap thief who purloins bottles of milk from basement doorways in the gray of dawn.

“Now, now, now, boy!” The pen was still poised.

“Oh, put up your trinkets,” said Bean with a fine affectation of weariness.

The old gentleman sat back and exhaled a scented but vicious breath.  There was silence.  It seemed to have become evident that the unprincipled young scoundrel must be taken seriously.

Then spoke the largest director, removing from his lips a cigarette which his own bulk seemed to reduce to something for a microscope only.  He had been silent up to this moment, and his words now caused Bean the first discomfort he had felt.

“You will come here to-morrow morning,” he began, slanting his entire facial area toward Bean, “and you will make restitution for this betrayal of trust.  I think I speak for these gentlemen here, when I say we will do nothing with you to-night.  Of course, if we chose—­but no; you are a free man until to-morrow morning.  After that all will depend on you.  You are still young; I shall be sorry if we are forced to adopt extreme measures.  I believe we shall all be sorry.  But I am sure a night of sober reflection will bring you to your senses.  You will come here to-morrow morning.  You may go.”

The slow, cool words had told.  He tried to preserve his confident front, as he turned to the door.  He would have left his banner on the field but for the oldest director, who had too long been silent.

“Snake in the grass!” hissed the oldest director, and instantly the colours waved again from Bean’s lifted standard.  He did not like the oldest director and he soared into the pure ether of verbal felicity, forgetful of all threats.