Wilson was busy at his desk looking over bills of lading, receipts, and other papers, and now and then giving instructions to a typewriter in the corner of the room.
“Ahl how are you, Miller?” he said, indifferently, giving the caller his hand without rising. “Down to see the city again, eh?”
Rayburn leaned on the top of the desk, and knocked the ashes from his cigar with the tip of his little finger.
“Partly that and partly business,” he returned, carelessly.
“Two birds, eh?”
“That's about it. I concluded you were not coming up our way soon, and so I decided to drop in on you.”
“Yes, glad you did.” Wilson glanced at the papers on his desk and frowned. “Wish I had more time at my disposal. I'd run up to the club with you and show you my Kentucky thoroughbreds, but I realty am rushed, to-day particularly.”
“Oh, I haven't a bit of time to spare myself! I take the afternoon train home. The truth is, I came to see you for my clients, the Bishops.”
“Ah, I see.” Wilson's face clouded over by some mechanical arrangement known only to himself. “Well, I can' t realty report any progress in that matter,” he said. “All the company think Bishop's figures are away out of reason, and the truth is, right now, we are over head and ears in operations in other quarters, and—well, you see how it is?”
“Yes, I think I do.” Miller smoked a moment. “In fact, I told my clients last month that the matter was not absorbing your attention, and so they gave up counting on you.”