one of nature's cherry-chasers. It was the only thing he did really
well. His name was Grayling, his height five feet three, his socks
pink, and his income enormous.

So much for Grayling. He is of absolutely no importance, either to the
world or to this narrative, except in so far that the painful story he
has been unfolding to Bailey Bannister has so wrought upon that
exquisite as to send him galloping up Fifth Avenue at five miles an
hour in search of his sister Ruth.

Let us now examine Bailey. He is a faultlessly dressed young man of
about twenty-seven, who takes it as a compliment when people think
him older. His mouth, at present gaping with agitation and the
unwonted exercise, is, as a rule, primly closed. His eyes, peering
through gold-rimmed glasses, protrude slightly, giving him something
of the dumb pathos of a codfish.

His hair is pale and scanty, his nose sharp and narrow. He is a junior
partner in the firm of Bannister & Son, and it is his unalterable
conviction that, if his father would only give him a chance, he could
show Wall Street some high finance that would astonish it.

The afternoon was warm. The sun beat down on the avenue. Bailey had not
gone two blocks before it occurred to him that swifter and more
comfortable progress could be made in a taxicab than on his admirably
trousered legs. No more significant proof of the magnitude of his
agitation could be brought forward than the fact that he had so far
forgotten himself as to walk at all. He hailed a cab and gave the
address of a house on the upper avenue.