“What is it?” said Gissing to a female at the silk-stocking counter.
“One of the floorwalkers—died of heat prostration,” she said, looking very much upset.
“Poor fellow,” said Gissing. “You never know what will happen next, do you?” He walked away, shaking his head.
He asked the elevator attendant to direct him to the offices of the firm. On the seventh floor, down a quiet corridor behind the bedroom suites, a rosewood fence barred his way. A secretary faced him inquiringly.
“I wish to see Mr. Beagle.”
“Mr. Beagle senior or Mr. Beagle junior?”
Youth cleaves to youth, said Gissing to himself. “Mr. Beagle junior,” he stated firmly.
“Have you an appointment?”
“Yes,” he said.
She took his ward, disappeared, and returned. “This way, please,” she said.
Mr. Beagle senior must be very old indeed, he thought; for junior was distinctly grizzled. In fact (so rapidly does the mind run), Mr. Beagle senior must be near the age of retirement. Very likely (he said to himself) that will soon occur;
