Mr. Barbour was a bald-headed, worried-looking little man, who, in the seclusion of a rear office, sat behind a big desk.  Minor introduced Galusha and Mr. Barbour extended a moist and flabby hand.  Minor excused himself and hastened out to the really important matters of life.  Galusha told Barbour the story of his letter to Cousin Gussie.  He did not tell what was in the letter, further than to say that it was an inquiry concerning a certain investment security.

Barbour shook his head.

“Everything marked ‘Personal’ I forward to Thomas,” he said.  “He’ll write you pretty soon, although I’m pretty sure he won’t trouble the chief with your question.  Doctors are mighty strict about that.  Nothing we here can do to help, is there?  Perhaps Mr. Minor might answer your question.”

Galusha was thinking of Minor that very moment, but he shook his head.  Martha had asked that no one but Cousin Gussie be told of her trouble.  No, he would wait, at least until he heard from the secretary in the West.

“Why, thank you, Mr. Barbour,” he said, rising.  “I—­I will wait, I think.”

“All right, sir.  Sorry, but you see how it is.  Drop in again, Mr.—­er—­Barnes.  Barnes was the name, wasn’t it?”

“Why, not exactly.  My name is Bangs, but it really doesn’t matter in the least.  Dear me, no.  I am a relative of Mr. Cabot’s.  But that doesn’t matter either.  Good-morning, Mr. Barbour.”

But it did seem to matter, after all.  At any rate, Mr. Barbour for the first time appeared actually interested.

“Eh?” he exclaimed.  “Bangs?  Oh, just a minute, Mr. Bangs.  Just a minute, if you please.  Bangs?  Why, are you—­ You’re not the—­er—­ professor?  Professor Ga—­Ga—­”

“Galusha.  Yes, I am Galusha Bangs.”

“You don’t mean it!  Well, well, that’s odd!  I was planning to write you to-day, Professor.  Let me see, here’s the memorandum now.  We look after your business affairs, I believe, Professor?”

Galusha nodded.  He was anxious to get away.  The significance of Cousin Gussie’s illness and absence and what those might mean to Martha Phipps were beginning to dawn upon him.  He wanted to get away and think.  The very last thing he wished to do was to discuss his own business affairs.

“Yes,” he admitted; “yes, you—­ah—­do.  That is, Cousin Gussie—­ah—­ Mr. Cabot does.  But, really, I—­”

“I won’t keep you but a moment, Professor.  And what I’m going to tell you is good news, at that.  I presume it is news; or have you heard of the Tinplate melon?”

It was quite evident that Galusha had not heard.  Nor, hearing now, did the news convey anything to his mind.

“Melon?” he repeated.  “Ah—­melon, did you say?”

“Why, yes.  The Tinplate people are—­”