over. Should I accept Mr. Indiman's invitation to call?

I looked around for an ash-tray, and, seeing one on the big
writing-table in the centre of the room, I walked over to it.

There were some bits of white lying in the otherwise empty tray--
the fragments of a torn-up visiting-card. A portion of the engraved
script caught my eye, "Indi--"

It was not difficult to piece together the bits of pasteboard, for
I knew pretty well what I should find. Completed, the puzzle read,
"Mr. Esper Indiman," and in pencil, "Call at 4020 Madison Avenue at
half-past seven this evening."

So there were three of us--if not more. Rather absurd this
assignment of a separate quarter of an hour to each interview--
quite as though Mr. Indiman desired to engage a valet and we were
candidates for the position. Evidently, an eccentric person, but
it's a queer world anyhow, as most of us know. There's my own case,
for example. I'm supposed to be a gentleman of leisure and means.
Leisure, certainly, but the means are slender enough, and
proceeding in a diminishing ratio. That's the penalty of having
been born a rich man's son and educated chiefly in the arts of
riding off at polo and thrashing a single-sticker to windward in a
Cape Cod squall. But I sha'n't say a word against the governor, God
bless him! He gave me what I thought I wanted, and it wasn't his
fault that an insignificant blood-clot should beat him out on that
day of days--the corner in "R. P." It was never the Chicago crowd
that could have downed him--I'm glad to remember that.