The Brass Bowl | Page 5

dust it. Do you understand?"
"Yissor. Very good, Mr. Maitland."

II
POST-PRANDIAL
Bannerman pushed back his chair a few inches, shifting position the
better to benefit of a faint air that fanned in through the open window.
Maitland, twisting the sticky stem of a liqueur glass between thumb and
forefinger, sat in patient waiting for the lawyer to speak.
But Bannerman was in no hurry; his mood was rather one
contemplative and genial. He was a round and cherubic little man, with
the face of a guileless child, the acumen of a successful counsel for
soulless corporations (that is to say, of a high order), no particular sense
of humor, and a great appreciation of good eating. And Maitland was
famous in his day as one thoroughly conversant with the art of ordering
a dinner.
That which they had just discussed had been uncommon in all respects;

Maitland's scheme of courses and his specification as to details had
roused the admiration of the Primordial's chef and put him on his mettle.
He had outdone himself in his efforts to do justice to Mr. Maitland's
genius; and the Primordial in its deadly conservatism remains to this
day one of the very few places in New York where good, sound
cooking is to be had by the initiate.
Therefore Bannerman sucked thoughtfully at his cigar and thought
fondly of a salad that had been to ordinary salads as his 80-H.-P. car
was to an electric buckboard. While Maitland, with all time at his
purchase, idly flicked the ash from his cigarette and followed his
attorney's meditative gaze out through the window.
Because of the heat the curtains were looped back, and there was
nothing to obstruct the view. Madison Square lay just over the sill, a
dark wilderness of foliage here and there made livid green by arc-lights.
Its walks teemed with humanity, its benches were crowded. Dimly
from its heart came the cool plashing of the fountain, in lulls that fell
unaccountably in the roaring rustle of restless feet. Over across,
Broadway raised glittering walls of glass and stone; and thence came
the poignant groan and rumble of surface cars crawling upon their
weary and unvarying rounds.
And again Maitland thought of the City, and of Destiny, and of the grey
girl the silhouette of whose hand was imprisoned beneath the brass
bowl on his study desk. For by now he was quite satisfied that she and
none other had trespassed upon the privacy of his rooms, obtaining
access to them in his absence by means as unguessable as her motive.
Momentarily he considered taking Bannerman into his confidence; but
he questioned the advisability of this: Bannerman was so severely
practical in his outlook upon life, while this adventure had been so
madly whimsical, so engagingly impossible. Bannerman would be sure
to suggest a call at the precinct police station.... If she had made way
with anything, it would be different; but so far as Maitland had been
able to determine, she had abstracted nothing, disturbed nothing
beyond a few square inches of dust....
Unwillingly Bannerman put the salad out of mind and turned to the
business whose immediate moment had brought them together. He
hummed softly, calling his client to attention. Maitland came out of his
reverie, vaguely smiling.

"I'm waiting, old man. What's up?"
"The Graeme business. His lawyers have been after me again. I even
had a call from the old man himself."
"Yes? The Graeme business?" Maitland's expression was blank for a
moment; then comprehension informed his eyes. "Oh, yes; in
connection with the Dougherty investment swindle."
"That's it. Graeme's pleading for mercy."
Maitland lifted his shoulders significantly. "That was to be expected,
wasn't it? What did you tell him?"
"That I'd see you."
"Did you hold out to him any hopes that I'd be easy on the gang?"
"I told him that I doubted if you could be induced to let up."
"Then why--?"
"Why, because Graeme himself is as innocent of wrong-doing and
wrong-intent as you are."
"You believe that?"
"I do," affirmed Bannerman. His fat pink fingers drummed uneasily on
the cloth for a few moments. "There isn't any question that the
Dougherty people induced you to sink your money in their enterprise
with intent to defraud you."
"I should think not," Maitland interjected, amused.
"But old man Graeme was honest, in intention at least. He meant no
harm; and in proof of that he offers to shoulder your loss himself, if by
so doing he can induce you to drop further proceedings. That proves
he's in earnest, Dan, for although Graeme is comfortably well to do, it's
a known fact that the loss of a cool half-million, while it's a drop in the
bucket to you, would cripple him."
"Then why doesn't he stand