"Howdy, Marsh!" said his new-comer easily.
From his seat before his desk Langham scowled across at him.
"What the devil brings you here, Andy?" he asked, ungraciously enough.
Gilmore buried his hands deep in his trousers pockets and with one eye half closed surveyed the lawyer over the tip of his tilted cigar.
"You're a civil cuss, Marsh," he said lightly, "but one wouldn't always know it. Ain't I a client, ain't I a friend,—and damn it all, man, ain't I a creditor? There are three excuses, any one of which is: sufficient to bring me into your esteemed presence!"
"We may as well omit the first," growled Langham, wheeling his chair back from the desk and facing Gilmore.
"Why?" asked Gilmore, lazily tolerant of the other's mood.
"Because there is nothing more that I can do for you," said Langham shortly.
"Oh, yes there is, Marsh, there's a whole lot more you can do for me. There's Moxlow, the distinguished prosecuting attorney; without you to talk sense to him he's liable to listen to all sorts of queer people who take more interest in my affairs than is good for them; but as long as he's got you at his elbow he won't forget my little stake in his election."
"If you wish him not to forget it, you'd better not be so particular in reminding him of it; he'll get sick of you and your concerns!" retorted Langham.