There were photographs wherein the master of "Idle Times" and Mr. George Benton appeared together, ranging from ancient football days to snapshots of a mountain-climbing expedition in the Andes, dated only two years back.
It was into this sanctum that Benton clanked, booted and spurred, early the following morning.
Ostensibly Van was looking over business letters, but there was a trace of wander-lust in the eyes that strayed off with dreamy truancy beyond the tree-tops.
Benton planted himself before his host with folded arms, and stood looking down almost accusingly into the face of his old friend.
"Whenever I have anything particularly unpleasant to do," began the guest, "I do it quick. That's why I'm here now."
Van Bristow looked up, mildly astonished.
During a decade of intimacy these two men had joyously, affectionately and consistently insulted each other on all possible occasions. Now, however, there was a certain purposeful ring in Benton's voice which told the other this was quite different from the time-honored affectation of slander. Consequently his demand for further enlightenment came with terse directness.
Benton nodded and a defiant glint came to his pupils.
"I come to serve notice," he announced briefly, "of something I mean to do."
Van took the pipe from his mouth and regarded it with concentrated attention, while his friend went on in carefully gauged voice.