Page:Harold Macgrath--The girl in his house.djvu/91



ROM eleven until one o'clock each day Armitage sat in his office. His name was now upon the door, and he never looked at it without a tonic thrill of pride. Often it takes but little to amuse one's vanity. He was playing the game, anyhow; he was no longer a cipher in human affairs: he was something, even if infinitesimally something. It was odd, but twist away from it as he might, this new energy was primarily due to Bordman's calm, unimpassioned analysis. The irony had cut deep. Bordman had rooked him thoroughly, but on the other hand the old scalawag had awakened a desire to play the game. What he had lost in money, then, he was determined to gain in character.

About his only customer was the janitor, with the usual round of complaints from