“How do you do, Mr. Montague?” said Gamble.  “Glad to see you again.”

“Alice has just gone upstairs,” said Oliver.  “We were going to sit in the cafe awhile.  Will you join us?”

“Yes, do,” said Mr. Gamble, cordially.

Montague went because he wanted to have a talk with Oliver before he went to bed that night.

“Do you know Dick Ingham?” asked Mr. Gamble, as they seated themselves at a table.

“The Steel man, you mean?” asked Montague.  “No, I never met him.”

“We were talking about him,” said the other.  “Poor chap—­it really was hard luck, you know.  It wasn’t his fault.  Did you ever hear the true story?”

“No,” said Montague, but he knew to what the other referred.  Ingham was one of the “Steel crowd,” as they were called, and he had been president of the Trust until a scandal had forced his resignation.

“He is an old friend of mine,” said Gamble; “he told me all about it.  It began in Paris—­some newspaper woman tried to blackmail him, and he had her put in jail for three months.  And when she got out again, then the papers at home began to get stories about poor Ingham’s cutting up.  And the public went wild, and they made him resign—­just imagine it!”

Gamble chuckled so violently that he was seized by a coughing spell, and had to signal for a glass of water.

“They’ve got a new scandal on their hands now,” said Oliver.

“They’re a lively crowd, the Steel fellows,” laughed the other.  “They want to make Davidson resign, too, but he’ll fight them.  He knows too much!  You should hear his story!”

“I imagine it’s not a very savoury one,” said Montague, for lack of something to say.

“It’s too bad,” said the other, earnestly.  “I have talked to them sometimes, but it don’t do any good.  I remember Davidson one night:  ‘Jim,’ says he, ’a fellow gets a whole lot of money, and he buys him everything he wants, until at last he buys a woman, and then his trouble begins.  If you’re buying pictures, there’s an end to it—­you get your walls covered sooner or later.  But you never can satisfy a woman.’” And Mr. Gamble shook his head.  “Too bad, too bad,” he repeated.

“Were you in the steel business yourself?” asked Montague, politely.

“No, no, oil was my line.  I’ve been fighting the Trust, and last year they bought me out, and now I’m seeing the world.”

Mr. Gamble relapsed into thought again.  “I never went in for that sort of thing myself,” he said meditatively; “I am a married man, I am, and one woman is enough for me.”

“Is your family in New York?” asked Montague, in an effort to change the subject.

“No, no, they live in Pittsburg,” was the answer.  “I’ve got four daughters—­all in college.  They’re stunning girls, I tell you—­I’d like you to meet them, Mr. Montague.”

“I should be pleased,” said Montague, writhing inwardly.  But a few minutes later, to his immense relief, Mr. Gamble arose, and bade him good night.