"By the way, Miss Bringlunch," the senior partner said to her, "have we any person of the name of Jim Conway on our list of correspondents?"
"No, sir," she promptly replied. "We've got a Conners, Coleman, Coulter, Conneff, Curran—lots and lots of C's—but no Conway."
"So I thought," said the senior partner. "Er—by the way, did you ever happen to hear Mr. Barlock refer to a person by the name of—er—Bub?"
The young woman smiled as she tied her black sateen apron in the back.
"I've heard him call the newsboys who come into the office with papers Bub," she replied.
"Er—yes, yes," murmured the senior partner, "so have I. But this is a St. Louis Bub. Well, no matter."
The senior partner dived into the mass of papers on his desk, but he couldn't get the bloodthirsty telegram to his junior partner out of his mind. He was puzzling over it still radiant when his junior partner's young wife came along toward 11 o'clock in the morning. She wanted to find out the exact hour her husband was due back from Washington.
"He'll be here a little after 4, I guess," said the senior partner. "Er—by the way, Mrs. Barlock, does Jack number among his friends or acquaintances anybody by the name of Jim Conway?"
"Jim Conway?" repeated the junior partner's wife, with a finger at her lip. "Why, no, not that I know of. I never heard him say anything about a Mr. Conway. Why?"
"Oh, nothing," said the senior partner, in a constrained sort of tone, putting away the message from St. Louis for the fiftieth time.