always seemed to him a trifle soiled.

Now, looking him over as he climbed into the car, unusually red in
the face, breathing out the aroma of spirits through his little,
pinched nostrils, a faint sensation of disgust came over the senior
member of the firm as though the junior member were physically
unclean.

"That's about ten drinks since luncheon," he remarked, as the car
rolled on down Fifth Avenue.

Quair, who usually grew disagreeably familiar when mellow, poked his
gloved thumb:

"You're a merry old cock, aren't you?" he inquired genially, "--like
a pig's wrist! If I hadn't the drinking of the entire firm to do,
who'd ever talk about Guilder and Quair, architects?"

It was common rumor that Quair did his brilliant work only when
"soused." And he never appeared to be perfectly sober, even when he
was.

Graylock received them in his office--a big, reckless-eyed, handsome
man, with Broad Street written all over him and "danger" etched in
every deepened line of his face.

"Well, how about that business of mine?" he inquired. "It's all
right to keep me waiting, of course, while you and Quair here match
for highballs at the Ritz."