Mr. Mix was fresh from an interview with Miss Mirabelle Starkweather. Her acquaintance with him was slight, but from a distance she had always esteemed him, partly for his mature good-looks, and partly for the distinguished manner which had always been a large fraction of his stock-in-trade, and was now to be listed among his principal assets. Her esteem, however, applied to him merely as an individual, and not as a debtor.
“I wanted to see you about a note,” she said, primly. “A five thousand dollar demand note you gave my brother four months ago. He 68 endorsed it over to me, and I wanted to see you about it.”
Mr. Mix allowed his mouth to widen in a smile which was disarmingly benevolent. The horse at Bowie had proved dark indeed,––so dark that it had still been merged with the background when the winner passed the judge’s stand––and this colour-test had cost Mr. Mix precisely two thousand dollars. Beyond that, he had paid off a few of his most pressing creditors, and he had spent a peculiarly carefree week in New York (where he had also taken a trifling flyer in cotton, and made a disastrous forced landing) so that there was practically nothing but his smile between himself and bankruptcy. Yet Mr. Mix beamed, with almost ecclesiastical poise, upon the holder of his demand note, and tried her with honey.
“Ordinarily, I’m embarrassed to talk business with a woman,” said Mr. Mix. “I’m so conscious of the––what shall I say?––of a woman’s disadvantage in a business interview. But in your case, Miss Starkweather, when your 69 executive ability is so well known and so universally praised––”
She nodded, and took it without discount, but she wasn’t distracted from her purpose. “I hope it’s convenient for you to pay it, Mr. Mix.”
“If it weren’t convenient,” said Mr. Mix, soothingly, “I should make it convenient. When the sister of my oldest friend––a man who once sat at the same desk with me, when we were young clerks together––when his sister is in need of funds, I––”
“’T isn’t that,” she said, quickly. “I want this money for some special reason.”
He inclined his head slightly. “One of your favourite charities, I have no doubt. But whatever the reason, the obligation is the same. Now, let’s see––I’ll have to sell some securities––when must you have it?”
“Next Tuesday.”
Inwardly, Mr. Mix was startled, but outwardly he looked grieved. “Tuesday? Now––that is––wait a minute.” He created the impression that he was juggling vast affairs, in 70 order to gratify a whim of his old friend’s sister. As a matter of fact, he was wondering what plausible excuse he could give without revealing any hint of the truth. “Is Tuesday imperative?”