PETER SATCHLEY glanced up from his desk as his stenographer put some letters before him.
“That will be all for today,” he said. “Go some place and try to be cool. This is terrible weather. Tell that imp in the front office to clear out, too.”
Having thus dismissed the stenographer and office boy, Peter Satchley got up and went to the water cooler in a corner of his private office, took a drink, and then remained standing by a window looking down into the court of the building. Before his eyes were scores of open windows, and inside them stenographers and business men were sitting, but Peter Satchley did not see these busy human beings. He was thinking.
After a time he turned back to his desk again, sat down before it, and perused for the hundredth time a paper upon it—the confidential r
