About nine o'clock that same night a certain rich man, having
established himself comfortably under the reading lamp, a fine book
in his hands and a fine after-dinner cigar between his teeth, was
exceedingly resentful when his butler knocked, entered, and presented a
card.

"My orders were that I was not at home to any one."

"Yes, sir. But he said you would see him because he came to see you
regarding a Mr. Gregory."

"What?"

"Yes, sir."

"Damn these newspapers!... Wait, wait!" the banker called, for the
butler was starting for the door to carry the anathema to the appointed
head. "Bring him in. He's a big bug, and I can't afford to affront him."

"Yes, sir"--with the colourless tone of a perfect servant.

When the visitor entered he stopped just beyond the threshold. He
remained there even after the butler closed the door. Blue eye and gray
clashed; two masters of fence who had executed the same stroke. The
banker laughed and Cutty smiled.

"I suppose," said the banker, "you and I ought to sign an armistice,
too."

"Agreed."

"And you've always been rather a puzzle to me. A rich man, a gentleman,
and yet sticking to the newspaper game."

"And you're a puzzle to me, too. A rich man, a gentleman, and yet
sticking to the banking game."