at himself for a solid half-minute in the bookcase mirror across
from his desk. Apparently he was as mournful as an undertaker, but
at the end of the inspection his mouth suddenly stretched in a wide
grin, which bristled the silver-white beard upon his cheeks; his
eyes screwed themselves up into knots of jovial wrinkles and he
winked--actually winked--at his reflection in the glass! Thereupon
he straightened his face and sent for Morton Washer.

Mr. Washer, proprietor of two of the largest hotels in New York, and
half a dozen enormous winter and summer places, looked no more like
a boniface than he did like a little girl on communion Sunday. He
was a small, wispy, waspish fellow with a violently upright, raging
pompadour, a mustache which, in spite of careful attempts at waxing,
persisted in sticking straight forward, and a sharp hard nose which
had apparently been tempered to a delicate purple.

"Hear you've revived your hotel project," he said to Mr. Courtney.

"No," denied Courtney. "Sold the property."

"I know," agreed Mr. Washer with absolute disbelief. "What'll you
take for it?"

"I told you it was sold. Here's the contract." And, with great
satisfaction, Courtney passed over the document.

"Two million six hundred and fifty!" snorted Washer. "That's half a
million more than it's worth."

"You told my friends you intended to buy the railroad plot at three