At about the time when Lora Delane Porter was cross-examining KirkWinfield, Bailey Bannister left his club hurriedly.

　　Inside the club a sad, rabbit-faced young gentleman, who had beenunburdening his soul to Bailey, was seeking further consolation in anamber drink with a cherry at the bottom of it. For this young man wasone of nature's cherry-chasers. It was the only thing he did reallywell. His name was Grayling, his height five feet three, his sockspink, and his income enormous.

　　So much for Grayling. He is of absolutely no importance, either to theworld or to this narrative, except in so far that the painful story hehas been unfolding to Bailey Bannister has so wrought upon thatexquisite as to send him galloping up Fifth Avenue at five miles anhour in search of his sister Ruth.

　　Let us now examine Bailey. He is a faultlessly dressed young man ofabout twenty-seven, who takes it as a compliment when people thinkhim older. His mouth, at present gaping with agitation and theunwonted exercise, is, as a rule, primly closed. His eyes, peeringthrough gold-rimmed glasses, protrude slightly, giving him somethingof the dumb pathos of a codfish.

　　His hair is pale and scanty, his nose sharp and narrow. He is a juniorpartner in the firm of Bannister & Son, and it is his unalterableconviction that, if his father would only give him a chance, he couldshow Wall Street some high finance that would astonish it.

　　The afternoon was warm. The sun beat down on the avenue. Bailey had notgone two blocks before it occurred to him that swifter and morecomfortable progress could be made in a taxicab than on his admirablytrousered legs. No more significant proof of the magnitude of hisagitation could be brought forward than the fact that he had so farforgotten himself as to walk at all. He hailed a cab and gave theaddress of a house on the upper avenue.

　　He leaned back against the cushions, trying to achieve a coolness ofmind and body. But the heat of the day kept him unpleasantly soluble,and dismay, that perspiration of the soul, refused to be absorbed bythe pocket-handkerchief of philosophy.

　　Bailey Bannister was a young man who considered the minding of otherpeople's business a duty not to be shirked. Life is a rocky road forsuch. His motto was "Let _me_ do it!" He fussed about the affairsof Bannister & Son; he fussed about the welfare of his friends at theclub; especially, he fussed about his only sister Ruth.

　　He looked on himself as a sort of guardian to Ruth. Their mother haddied when they were children, and old Mr. Bannister was indifferentlyequipped with the paternal instinct. He was absorbed, body and soul, inthe business of the firm. He lived practically a hermit life in thegreat house on Fifth Avenue; and, if it had not been for Bailey, soBailey considered, Ruth would have been allowed to do just whatever shepleased. There were those who said that this was precisely what shedid, despite Brother Bailey.