impelling Mr. Jason to become thus confidential; nor was it the most
comforting thought in the world that the artist in me had appealed to the
artist in him, that he had hailed me as a breather. But for the grace of
God I might have been Mr. Jason and he Mr. Paret: undoubtedly that was
what he had meant to imply... And I was forced to admit that he had
succeeded--deliberately or not--in making the respectable Mr. Paret just
a trifle uncomfortable.

In the marble vestibule of the Corn National Bank I ran into Tallant,
holding his brown straw hat in his hand and looking a little more
moth-eaten than usual.

"Hello, Paret," he said "how is that telephone business getting along?"

"Is Dickinson in?" I asked.

Tallant nodded.

We went through the cool bank, with its shining brass and red mahogany,
its tiled floor, its busy tellers attending to files of clients, to the
president's sanctum in the rear. Leonard Dickinson, very spruce and
dignified in a black cutaway coat, was dictating rapidly to a woman,
stenographer, whom he dismissed when he saw us. The door was shut.

"I was just asking Paret about the telephone affair," said Mr. Tallant.

"Well, have you found a way out?" Leonard Dickinson looked questioningly
at me.

"It's all right," I answered. "I've seen Jason."