Gard turned as if to rend him. "I have told you I'll go, haven't I?
But--and there _is_ a but--gentlemen, you must select another delegate,
or delegation, in case circumstances arise--"

Denning's voice interrupted from the end of the table. "Gard, what
excuse is the only excuse for not returning one's partner's lead? Sudden
death."

"Or when you _must_ have the lead yourself," snapped Gard. "I cannot go
into this matter with you, gentlemen. The contingency I speak of is very
remote--if it is a contingency at all. But I must be frank. I cannot
have you take my enforced absence, if such should be necessary, as
defalcation or a shirking of my duty--so I warn you."

"The chance is remote," Denning replied in quiet tones that palliated.
"Let us decide, then, who, in case this vague possibility should shape
itself, will act as delegates. I do not think we can improve on the
president's suggestion, but," and he turned to Gard sternly, "I trust
the contingency is _so_ remote that we may consider it an impossibility
for all our sakes, and your own."

Gard did not answer. In silence he heard the motion carried, and
silently and without his usual affability he turned and left the room.
The others eyed each other with open discomfiture.

"Well, gentlemen, the meeting is over," said Denning gloomily. "We may
as well adjourn."

A very puzzled and uneasy group dispersed before the tall marble office