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 and went buzzing down to his office. On the way he threw away his newspaper and looked up at a ragged patch of sky above the housetops.

“Three pounds!” he muttered, absently. “And Harding isn’t a liar. I believe, if I could—but it’s impossible—they’ve got to have another month—another month at least.”

In his office the upholder of urban midsummer joys dived, headforemost, into the swimming pool of business. Adkins, his clerk, came and added a spray of letters, memoranda and telegrams.

At 5 o’clock in the afternoon the busy man leaned back in his office chair, put his feet on the desk and mused aloud:

“I wonder what kind of bait Harding used.”

She was all in white that day; and thereby Compton lost a bet to Gaines. Compton had wagered she would wear light blue, for she knew that was his favorite color, and Compton was a millionaire’s son, and that almost laid him open to the charge of betting on a sure thing. But white was her choice, and Gaines held up his head with twenty-five’s lordly air.

The little summer hotel in the mountains had a lively crowd that year. There were two or three young college men and a couple of artists and a young naval officer on one side. On the other there were enough beauties among the young ladies for the