“Do you care to come with me?” asked Mr. Robison, with a politeness that betrayed effort. “Thank you, no. I am very busy, and—”
“And you didn't cut me short!” said Robison, his voice ringing with remorse. “I'll come in tomorrow morning. Good afternoon—and please forgive my theft of your time, Mr. Richards.”
“One moment. Do you wish this money—”
“I'll get the receipt to-morrow. I am going to see Kidder now. I didn't mean to take up so much of your time.” And before the banker could stop him Mr. James B. Robison was out of the inner office and out of the outer office and out of the building and out of the financial district.
Shortly afterward Amos F. Kidder, financial editor of the Evening Planet, west into Richards's office. He was thirty-five years old, a trifle under six feet, had light-brown hair and the eyes of a man who is a cynic by force of experience and an optimist by reason of a perfect liver—the kind of man who is fooled by strangers never and by intimate friends always. If what he had seen of Wall Street gave him a low opinion of men's motives he had the defect of steadfast loyalty. Having imagination and a profound respect for statistics, he wrote what might be called skilful articles on finance.
“Your friend Robison was here to-day. What do you know about him?” asked Richards. He would not take a stranger's account, but he did not relish losing an account he already had.
Kidder took a letter from his pocket, gave it to the stock-broker, and said:
“Smiley gave him a letter to me and in addition sent me that one by mail.”
Richards read:
The New York Planet, 5 Rue de Provence.