"Now you've wrapped up the blackjack so that it won't hurt, suppose you
go ahead and hit me over the head with it," suggested Cunningham dryly.

The lawyer told what he knew. The promoter took it with no evidence of
feeling other than that which showed in narrowed eyes hard as diamonds
and a clenched jaw in which the muscles stood out like ropes.

"Much obliged, Foster," he said, and the lawyer knew he was dismissed.

Cunningham paced the room for a few moments, then rang for a messenger.
He wrote a note and gave it to the boy to be delivered. Then he left
the club.

From Seventeenth Street he walked across to the Paradox Apartments
where he lived. He found a note propped up against a book on the table
of his living-room. It had been written by the Japanese servant he
shared with two other bachelors who lived in the same building.


Mr. Hull he come see you. He sorry you not here. He say maybe perhaps
make honorable call some other time.


It was signed, "S. Horikawa."

Cunningham tossed the note aside. He had no wish to see Hull. The
fellow was becoming a nuisance. If he had any complaint he could go to
the courts with it. That was what they were for.