IN WHICH CONSTANCE SHOWS FURTHER INTEREST IN JOHNNY’S AFFAIRS

On Wednesday morning Mr. Courtney, sitting as rigidly at his desk as if he were in church, was handed the card of Morton Washer.  He laid the card face down and placed a paper-weight on it, as if he feared it might get away.  He turned a callous eye on his secretary and, in his driest and most husky tones, directed:  “Tell Mr. Washer I will see him in five minutes.”

During that five minutes Mr. Courtney signed letters as solemnly as a judge pronouncing a death sentence.  At last he paused and looked at himself for a solid half-minute in the bookcase mirror across from his desk.  Apparently he was as mournful as an undertaker, but at the end of the inspection his mouth suddenly stretched in a wide grin, which bristled the silver-white beard upon his cheeks; his eyes screwed themselves up into knots of jovial wrinkles and he winked—­actually winked—­at his reflection in the glass!  Thereupon he straightened his face and sent for Morton Washer.

Mr. Washer, proprietor of two of the largest hotels in New York, and half a dozen enormous winter and summer places, looked no more like a boniface than he did like a little girl on communion Sunday.  He was a small, wispy, waspish fellow with a violently upright, raging pompadour, a mustache which, in spite of careful attempts at waxing, persisted in sticking straight forward, and a sharp hard nose which had apparently been tempered to a delicate purple.

“Hear you’ve revived your hotel project,” he said to Mr. Courtney.

“No,” denied Courtney.  “Sold the property.”

“I know,” agreed Mr. Washer with absolute disbelief.  “What’ll you take for it?”

“I told you it was sold.  Here’s the contract.”  And, with great satisfaction, Courtney passed over the document.

“Two million six hundred and fifty!” snorted Washer.  “That’s half a million more than it’s worth.”

“You told my friends you intended to buy the railroad plot at three and a half,” Courtney gladly reminded him.

“It’s four hundred feet deep.”

“You said you only wanted two hundred feet square, which is the size of this plot—­and this is an equally good location.”

“I know,” admitted Washer, contemptuous of all such trifles.  “What will you take for the property—­spot cash?”

“It’s sold, I tell you.  If you want to buy it see Mr. Gamble.”

“Who’s Gamble?”

“The man who is organizing the Terminal Hotel Company.”

“How much stock has he subscribed?”

“You will have to see Mr. Gamble about that.”

“Did you take any?”

“Half a million.”

“Humph!  You could afford to.  Now give me the straight of it, Courtney:  Is it any use to talk to you?”

“Not a bit.  You’ll—­”

“I know.  I’ll have to see Mr. Gamble!  Well, where do I find him?”

Mr. Courtney kindly wrote the address on a slip of paper.  Mr. Washer looked at it with a grunt, stuffed it in his waistcoat pocket and slammed out of the door.  Mr. Courtney winked at himself in the glass.  Old Mort Washer would try to take advantage of him, to the extent of an eighth of a million dollars, would he!  Make his old friend Courtney take an eighth of a million less than he paid, eh?  Mr. Courtney whistled a merry little tune.