back, looking unconcernedly at Waythorn. "Sorry to hear that Sellers
is knocked out again."

"Sellers?" echoed Waythorn, starting at his partner's name.

Varick looked surprised. "You didn't know he was laid up with the
gout?"

"No. I've been away--I only got back last night." Waythorn felt
himself reddening in anticipation of the other's smile.

"Ah--yes; to be sure. And Sellers's attack came on two days ago. I'm
afraid he's pretty bad. Very awkward for me, as it happens, because
he was just putting through a rather important thing for me."

"Ah?" Waythorn wondered vaguely since when Varick had been dealing
in "important things." Hitherto he had dabbled only in the shallow
pools of speculation, with which Waythorn's office did not usually
concern itself.

It occurred to him that Varick might be talking at random, to
relieve the strain of their propinquity. That strain was becoming
momentarily more apparent to Waythorn, and when, at Cortlandt
Street, he caught sight of an acquaintance, and had a sudden vision
of the picture he and Varick must present to an initiated eye, he
jumped up with a muttered excuse.

"I hope you'll find Sellers better," said Varick civilly, and he
stammered back: "If I can be of any use to you--" and let the
departing crowd sweep him to the platform.