own. After a while, Irene Gresham ushered in Philip Cabot. He, too, was
past middle age, with prematurely white hair and a thin, scholarly face.
According to Hollywood type-casting, he might have been a professor, or a
judge, or a Boston Brahmin, but never a stockbroker.

Irene Gresham wanted to know what everybody wanted to drink. Rand wanted
Bourbon and plain water; MacBride voted for Jamaica rum; Trehearne and
Cabot favored brandy and soda, and Pierre and the girls wanted Bacardi
and Coca-Cola.

"And Stephen'll want rye and soda, when he gets here," Irene said. "Come
on, girls; let's rustle up the drinks."

Before they returned, Stephen Gresham came in, lighting a cigar. It was
just nine twenty-two.

"Well, I see everybody's here," he said. "No; where's Karen?"

Pierre told him. A few minutes later the women returned, carrying bottles
and glasses; when the flurry of drink-mixing had subsided, they all sat
down.

"Let's get the business over first," Gresham suggested. "I suppose you've
gone over the collection already, Jeff?"

"Yes, and first of all, I want to know something. When was the last that
any of you saw it?"

Gresham and Pierre had been in Fleming's gunroom just two days before the
fatal "accident."