"Kellogg!"
"Yes. You know—of L.J. Bartlett & Company." Nat's forefinger continued to do deadly work. Burnham backed away from it as from a fiery brand.
"Oh, well!" he said, dashed, "if you're representing Kellogg"—and Nat took care not to refute the implication—"I—I don't want to interfere. Only," he pursued at random, in his discomfiture, "I can't see why he sent you here."
"I'd be ashamed to tell you," Nat returned with an open smile. "Better ask him."
Burnham gathered his wits together for a final threat. "That's what I will do!" he threatened. "And I'll do it the minute I can see him. You can bet on that, Mister What's-Your-Name!"
"No, I can't," said Nat naïvely. "I'm not allowed to gamble."
His ingenuous expression exasperated Burnham. The man lost control of his temper at the same moment that he acknowledged to himself his defeat. In disgust he turned away.
"Oh, there's no use talking to you—"
"That's right," Nat agreed fairly.
"But I'll see you again, Mr. Graham—"