"Then forget it, Mac. I'll go to the mat for Jimmy any day! That bank affair was no fault of his; the bonding company exonerated him absolutely. He came to me with the whole business when I sent for him to join me. I've known him for years, and he's true blue. By the way, Mac, who's the lady he's been shining up to lately? He keeps unusually mum on the subject, I notice. Weren't you in on the party the other day at the Biltmore?"
Macgowan chuckled, and shrugged.
"I saw your eagle eye fastened on us from across the room. Good lord, don't ask me! I just wandered in on that party, and we lunched together. Don't even recall her name—from the South, I think. She wasn't a bad sort at all. Well, I'll drift along. See you later!"
Macgowan departed.
Armstrong felt very glad of this conversation; he felt that it had cleared the air for him, had left him more cheerfully disposed, in better control of himself. When Findlater entered his office ten minutes later, Armstrong glanced up and nodded amiably.
"Good morning, Mr. President! What's on your mind?"
"This report." Findlater tapped the paper in his hand. "Have you examined it?"
Armstrong smiled. "My dear chap, I wrote it!"
Findlater, a New Yorker by birth, tried very hard to live up to the fact that his immediate ancestors had come from Boston. His grooming was perfect. A clipped red mustache, firm lips set in eternal repression, a coldly challenging gaze from a pink and chubby face—all went to make up an air of aggressive importance. Findlater studiously cultivated an aloof manner. One gathered that his fingers touched only supremely great things.
Armstrong, who detested this affectation, perhaps made the mistake of under-estimating the qualities which lay beneath it.