"You will come here to-morrow morning," he began, slanting his entire
facial area toward Bean, "and you will make restitution for this
betrayal of trust. I think I speak for these gentlemen here, when I say
we will do nothing with you to-night. Of course, if we chose--but no;
you are a free man until to-morrow morning. After that all will depend
on you. You are still young; I shall be sorry if we are forced to adopt
extreme measures. I believe we shall all be sorry. But I am sure a night
of sober reflection will bring you to your senses. You will come here
to-morrow morning. You may go."
The slow, cool words had told. He tried to preserve his confident front,
as he turned to the door. He would have left his banner on the field but
for the oldest director, who had too long been silent.
"Snake in the grass!" hissed the oldest director, and instantly the
colours waved again from Bean's lifted standard. He did not like the
oldest director and he soared into the pure ether of verbal felicity,
forgetful of all threats.
He stared pityingly at the speaker a moment, then cruelly said:
"You know they quit putting perfumery on their clothes right after the
Chicago fire."
He left the room with faultless dignity.
"_Im_pertinent young whelp!" spluttered the oldest director; but his
first fellow-director who dared to look at him saw that he was gazing
pensively from the high window, his back to the group.
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