If Mr. Edward Eggleston Murch had had nothing to do but attend the meetings of the various boards of which he was a director, his time would still have been reasonably well employed and he would have enjoyed an income sufficient at least to keep him in cigars of the standard to which his eminence entitled him. Mr. Murch's private secretary held a position requiring quick-wittedness and suavity in no common degree. Hardly a day went by that the ring of the phone did not serve as preamble for some such colloquy as this:

"Hello. Mr. Murch's office?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Murch in?"

"No. Can I do anything for you?"

"The W., T., and G. have called their annual meeting for election of officers on Friday the sixth. How about ten-thirty? Is that all right with Mr. Murch?"

"Wait a minute. Ten-thirty, you said? No, Mr. Murch has the International Corkscrew meeting at ten. Can't they push W., T., and G. into the afternoon?"

"I'll let you know later. Good-by."

And later it was arranged to suit Mr. Murch. If there were a pie in Mr. Murch's vicinity which Mr. Murch's finger was not in, it was, if not proof positive, strong circumstantial evidence that the pie was of a most inferior order of succulence; and Mr. Murch was a fairly good judge, being himself chairman of the finance committee of the United States Pie Company. He was a director in two banks, three trust companies, several railroads, at least four mining companies of the immensely profitable kind whose stock is never offered to the general public, besides innumerable industrial and general commercial concerns of every sort, color, and description, the sole similarity between them being their translucent money-making attributes. He was, on the other hand, a trustee of an art museum which was liberally assisted by contributors other than Mr. Murch, whose assistance was administrative rather than pecuniary; and he was on the executive committee of a charity organization society which under his astute management bade fair to be more than self-supporting, and there was really no valid reason to the contrary, for it transacted a very considerable business in sawed and split wood which it sold at current prices after paying each of its unfortunate employees twenty-two cents and an indescribably bad dinner for eight hours' hard work in the wood yard. Mr. Murch was also interested in a chain of blue-front restaurants, and a line of South American freighters, and last but not least, he was the heaviest stockholder and most potent factor in the management of the Salamander Fire Insurance Company.

The Salamander was as exactly the antithesis of the Guardian as it was possible to conceive. Where the Guardian was conservative, the Salamander was ultra-radical; where the Guardian wrote a million and three quarters yearly in premiums, the Salamander, though its surplus was rather less than that of the other company, wrote nearly two millions and a half. In short the Salamander gambled, and played to win, and as a matter of fact it usually did win by sheer audacity. It had never made any money out of its underwriting, that real test of company efficiency; but four years out of five the daring manipulation of its assets in Wall Street—politely termed the slight rearrangement of some of its investments—yielded it a handsome profit. Its dividend rate was more than twice that of the Guardian, and in some years, when losses were heavy, it failed to earn its dividend and was obliged to take the money for its payment out of its already narrow surplus.

The President of the Salamander was an obliging, disingenuous, rather weak individual of Mr. Murch's own selection. His name was Wellwood, and the less said of his character and attainments the better. Mr. Wellwood's mastery of the conditions of his business had never been especially deep, and during the past year a swelling penchant for fast horses, and indeed for acceleration of all kinds, had rather gotten the better of him. And Mr. Murch, concernedly going over the figures which showed the present condition of the Salamander's finances, felt a chill of doubt striking into his usually impassive veins.

"You've been losing money for the company faster than I can make it," he said coldly to Wellwood.

"Well, it's been an awfully bad year—losses have been terrific," stammered the underwriting executive, anxious to placate the god of his car.

"They're all bad years with you. Leave these papers with me; I want to go over them again."

Wellwood slunk out. The presidency of the Salamander, involving as it did occasional interviews of a nature similar to this with Mr. Murch, was no sinecure. Mr. Wellwood frequently debated whether it would not be better to listen to the siren voices of the agricultural weeklies with their alluring refrain of "back to the soil"; but the facilities for his favorite dissipations were painfully inadequate in the rural districts, and besides he was a city man born and bred, and while he knew how to take hold of a shovel, he would probably have stood askance and aghast before a scythe. So he hung on, hoping against hope for something—almost anything—to happen. To be sure his own comparative incompetence was to blame for the company's underwriting record, but that was a matter beyond his control.

It was perhaps an hour after Mr. Wellwood's departure when the card of another caller was brought to Mr. Murch by the efficient office boy.

"Show him in," he said.

A man in a light fall overcoat entered the room, nodding to the capitalist as he did so, but turning back almost immediately to attend to the cautious closing of the door.

"Sit down, won't you?" said Mr. Murch, carelessly. He raised his eyes to the door. "Anybody out there?" he inquired. "I mean any one that knows you?"

"No," the caller replied.

"Well, it doesn't matter about any one but Wellwood. But it would be better not to have him know anything about your having been here."

"Why? What do you care?" queried the other.

"No need of superfluous friction and unpleasantness, that's all. If we—agree, he'll find out everything soon enough; if we don't, no call to excite him."

"No doubt you're right," assented the visitor, lightly. He had by this time removed his overcoat and laid it over the arm of a convenient couch. He then selected a chair near Mr. Murch's own but facing that gentleman squarely, and sat down.

"Well, I'm ready to talk business," he said.

"And I," rejoined the other, easily. But he made no move to begin. After a strategic pause wherein it was made clear that he was determined not to open the conversation, his caller began to speak.

"Looking over the figures, I see," he suggested.

"Just running through them. They don't seem so bad, on the whole—in fact, rather better than I expected. Wellwood hasn't done so badly this year, after all, considering how heavy the losses have been all over the country—especially in the South."

The other did not reply. Each man fully understood that the other was temporizing, hoping to gain whatever advantage might accrue from letting the other make the initial play. But Mr. Murch was the older and the less nervous, and had himself better in hand. Finally the visitor spoke.

"Well, I don't suppose you sent for me merely to tell me that," he said abruptly. "Go ahead—make your proposition; there's no use beating about the bush between us." He picked up an ornamental paper cutter from the capitalist's desk and examined it with exaggerated care.

Mr. Murch took his time. He reflectively bit the end off a long cigar, and reached for a match box.

"I'm not sure that my mind's sufficiently made up to put a definite proposal up to you," he said, striking the match thoughtfully. "As I say, Wellwood hasn't been doing so badly—comparatively. And it hurts a company to make a change in its presidency—it disturbs the whole organization, especially when an outsider is brought in over the heads of all the subordinates. We have several promising men that might be disaffected by such a move. No, I don't believe I'm decided, at this time, on such radical action."

"Then I'll come again, when you do decide," said the other, and promptly rose to his feet.

In essence all this very much resembled the way an Algerian curio merchant conducts a bargain.

"Still, it would do no harm to talk the situation over a little to-day," suggested Mr. Murch.

The other man sat down again.

"Look here," he said, "you know what I'm here for. You're looking for a man to take charge of the management of the Salamander. You've looked into the affairs of the company and you know there isn't any one in that office—Wellwood or any of his understudies—that really knows his business. Now you think I'm the man you want, but it's your opener. It's for you to say what you expect done, and how much you'll give to get it done. You tell me that, and I'll tell you first whether I think I'm able to do it, and second whether I'll take it at your price."

For Mr. F. Mills O'Connor was sufficiently shrewd to anticipate that the presidency of the Salamander would be an empty honor unless it could be gained on terms which would free its incumbent from the immediate yoke of Mr. Murch. O'Connor did not intend to be a second Wellwood, with Old Man of the Sea Murch riding him to the grave.

The wisdom of his outspoken decision was proven by the altered tone in which the capitalist now said:—

"All right, Mr. O'Connor. No time like the present. We'll go into it."

And for nearly two hours they went into it. They discussed the subject of fire insurance from top to bottom; the amount of premium a company could safely accept in comparison to its resources, lines in conflagration districts, reinsurance treaties, relations with various unions, boards, and conferences, and underwriting in its relation to finance.

"So far as I can gather—and it's the general impression," said the Guardian official, "the Salamander has lost most of its money in the big cities. And you know as well as I do that the hope of making any money for the company consists in the chance of getting a profitable business from such cities as New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago, and St. Louis. I don't believe your five-year record shows a dollar's profit from any one of those places, yet nearly every well managed company has taken good money out of them. Wellwood knows it. He knows the kind of business he gets doesn't pay, but he doesn't know where or how to get the kind that does pay."

"Perhaps that may be so," agreed Mr. Murch, cautiously.

"Well, I do know where to get it," rejoined his visitor, "and I also know—what is much more vital and to the point—how."

"And how is that?" inquired his host with innocent curiosity.

"When you've made your proposition, I'll tell you," said the other, with a smile. "I'll amplify at the proper time."

"Oh, very well, then," replied the capitalist, apologetically. "Very well." But at this last sticking point he temporized again. His caller gave him no help, but waited in silence until he was ready.

"Mr. O'Connor," said Mr. Murch, "I have a high opinion of your underwriting ability. It is pretty well understood that you have had immediate charge of the underwriting of the Guardian for some years past, and they have been much more profitable years for your company than for ours."

He paused.

"The figures show that," said the other man.

"I do not conceal from you the fact that we are not wholly satisfied with Mr. Wellwood's operations. I have talked the matter over unofficially with two or three of my fellow directors, and I believe they would ratify officially the offer which I am going to make you. This offer is made upon certain agreements, restrictions, and presumptions. It is made contingent on your ability to carry out these agreements—in short, to deliver the goods."

"I understand," said O'Connor, with composure.

"The offer of which I speak is based on your taking the presidency of the Salamander, with a five-year contract, at a salary of twenty thousand dollars a year. You will be required to purchase as a matter of good faith—backing your entry, as it were—a certain amount of the company's stock; indeed, I presume you would wish to do so, and that is a feature that can be easily arranged. And we, of the Salamander, want a man qualified to turn the company into a money maker, and who can assure us at the same time of a reasonable increase in our premium income—say in the five years, from two and a half up to three millions."

O'Connor smiled rather cynically.

"You don't want much, do you?" he observed. "Those are modest requests."

"And," continued Mr. Murch, disregarding the interruption, "we wish to be assured by reasonable show of proof that the new business will be of a class that will be more profitable than the old—in other words, that it will not increase the company's present loss ratio."

"Which is quite high enough already," commented the other, dryly.

"In short, Mr. O'Connor, we must be assured not only that you can secure this increase in income, but we feel that we are entitled to be shown where it is likely to come from, and how you are going to stop the loss on our present business, before the matter goes before our directorate."

The Guardian's Vice-President rose, and stood looking down at Mr. Murch from across the table.

"You need me, Mr. Murch," he said. "I don't have to tell you that. You're supposed to be an expert in picking winners, although you made a bad break on Wellwood. I'm the right man for your job, and you knew it when you sent for me. And your offer is a handsome one—I'll admit that. I'll admit it so willingly that I'll come out and lay my cards—and yours—on the table. I'll put it to you straight."

"Yes?" replied the capitalist, inquiringly.

"Yes. What you mean is this. I've had charge of the underwriting of the Guardian for seven years. Many of its best agents look on me as the company; the Guardian is just a name, but the man they do business with is F. Mills O'Connor, and I'll guarantee that a lot of the best of them will keep on doing business with me, no matter with what concern I'm associated. Now the Guardian has as fine a class of big city business on its books as any company of its size in the field, and I'll bet that in the big cities, where you've lost your money, its business is not only better but larger than the Salamander's. In New York and Boston and Philadelphia you couldn't beat it to save your life. What you want to know is whether I can get equally good stuff for the Salamander, and I want to tell you that I can. And in some pretty important places I can get the identical business, you understand. You want to know how I'm going to get it. Well, what I just told you about a lot of agents keeping on with F. Mills O'Connor is one factor, but there are several others, and I'd rather not mention them until I take charge. But you need have no fear that they cannot be successfully utilized. Do I make myself clear?"

Mr. Murch smiled a deprecatory smile.

"Quite," he said. "In fact, you put it a little more bluntly than I had expected."

"Well, then, if you want to ratify this arrangement at the next meeting of your board, it will be all right with me, and moreover I'll guarantee you personally that within a year the Salamander will be taking over the Guardian's business in at least three of the principal cities of the United States."

"The next meeting is on Monday," said Mr. Murch.

"Very well. Ratify it then, but keep it strictly under cover for two months. If I hear from you that the deal has gone through, I'll start laying my wires. This is the first of October. Don't let anything out until the first of December. Then I'll resign, and come to the Salamander the first of the new year—possibly before that."

"How so?"

"Oh, I've a notion that when I resign, Mr. Wintermuth will say that I needn't remain the customary thirty days; I fancy he'll let me out at once."

A smile, none too pleasant, crossed the lips of the Guardian official. Business was business, of course, and a man was entitled to use his personal influence to advance himself; but he scarcely relished the idea of practically looting the company for which he had worked for a good many years. O'Connor's fiber was not of the tenderest, but he had his intervals of conscientiousness, when his brain saw the correct ethics, even if his hand did not always follow.

Mr. Murch got up from his chair.

"I'll call you on the phone Monday, after our meeting," he said.

"I shall be at the office until five."

They parted.

Criminologists assert, from many years' observation of many men in many lands, that no man positively desires to become a criminal. So little does the average man wish it, that it is usually difficult, even in the case of the most confirmed lawbreaker, to persuade him that he actually is or has been criminal in intent, no matter what his acts may have been.

This state of affairs is equally true in those higher grades of society where instincts are less passionate. Just as the man who kills his king or his father holds himself absolutely innocent of any wrong intent, so the unhappy parasite who steals his wife's earnings for drink, or the bookkeeper who makes away with the contents of the firm's cash drawer in order to play the races, believes himself to be unfortunate only, and more sinned against than sinning. No matter how much of a scoundrel a man may be, his self-analysis brings him far short of the correct degree of turpitude.

Mr. O'Connor was not a villain or a criminal. He was not, according to the standard of many, a dishonest man. But he was not an honest one. He had several weaknesses, the chief among which was venal ambition; and of courage, that quality which makes all other qualities seem just a little tawdry and futile, he had none except in a broad, physical sense. He was not, of course, afraid of the dark, but he was decidedly afraid of James Wintermuth; and when on Monday noon the telephone rang at the call of Mr. Murch, it is not too much to say that he was momentarily shaken.

"Suppose you drop around to the Club in about twenty minutes," was the suave suggestion of the man at the other end of the line.

"For a moment," the Guardian's Vice-President agreed hastily. "For a moment," he repeated, as he replaced the receiver on its hook. It were much better that he and Mr. Murch be not seen together in public until the meat was ready for the fire. And so it was the briefest of interviews that took place between them in the big smoking room. A few words, concluding with a handshake and a "Congratulate you, Mr. President," and the incident was closed. Even had the lynx eyes of Simeon Belknap himself perceived this meeting, he could hardly have found significance in the episode. And an event in the insurance world without significance to Mr. Belknap was a rara avis indeed.

Mr. O'Connor betrayed that night, aside from his customary lack of the refinements of courtesy, the first indication of human weakness that his household had noted for some time past. For a considerable part of the night he lay awake, tossing about in his bed until his long-suffering wife thought he must be ill.

"Is anything the matter?" came her solicitous voice through the dark doorway. And her husband answered irritably:—

"No. Don't bother about me. I'm all right."

Whether this nocturnal disquiet was the last throe of an expiring sense of honor and decency, or whether it was ambition burning in the blood, it is impossible to say. Quite likely it was a little of each. Mr. Wintermuth had been a good friend to O'Connor; still, a man must needs look first after his own interest; no one was apt to butter his bread for him. Sophistry old as the world.

Nevertheless, when morning dawned, the travail of the night had left no mark on Mr. O'Connor's brow. His wife, accustomed from many years of sky searching to look for trouble there, saw the unwrinkled expanse and took heart. Her husband answered her polite morning inquiries with sufficient attention, although he was palpably preoccupied and in no mood for casual conversation.

The fact was that his mind was made up and his plan of campaign chosen, and he was now bending all his thought and energies upon the manner and details of attack. There was no time to lose, and the iron would never be hotter than now. Accordingly, when he had disposed of the accumulation of morning mail at his desk, he walked thoughtfully over to President Wintermuth's office. In response to that gentleman's invitation he entered and seated himself near the desk, holding in his hand a number of papers pinned together. From his expression it would have seemed that disquieting reflections occupied his mind.

"What's the matter? Loss?" inquired his chief, taking the cue O'Connor had proffered.

"No," said the Vice-President, slowly. He glanced down at the papers that he held. "Mr. Wintermuth," he said, "what is your opinion of—or no, let me put it another way: how deeply are we committed to the Eastern Conference?"

"What do you mean—how deeply are we committed?"

"Just that. We were among the original subscribers to the Eastern Conference agreement, as you are aware. What I want to know is whether we are bound to a more rigid observance of its rules than other companies that are members of it."

"We are not, sir," returned the President. "Of course we are not. Why do you ask?"

"Well, sir, I hardly like to say so, but for a long time I have been growing to feel that our strict adherence to our obligations was affecting our business unfavorably at some points. In other words, I have been growing more and more sure that we are too honest—comparatively."

"How is that? How is that?" said Mr. Wintermuth, sharply.

"Perhaps I should say that some of our associates in the Conference are not quite honest enough, at least in the construction they put upon their pledges."

"You will have to be more specific, sir," returned the President, somewhat sternly.

"Very well, sir; I will be as specific as you please. Bluntly, then, I know that at least three of the leading Conference companies are violating the conditions of the Conference agreement, which they are pledged to observe, in no less than four cities in New England, and probably a dozen in New York and Pennsylvania. Some of them are in agencies where the Guardian is represented, and it's hurting us. I know it to be a fact."

"But I thought we went into this recently in New York State. I remember there was a lot of talk about crookedness, and Smith went up to find out what was going on. We made some charges, didn't we? And didn't we get a satisfactory answer?"

"Satisfactory, I presume, to the companies that made it. And possibly satisfactory to Smith, who seemed to me at the time, I confess, a little too easily satisfied for a man with his eyes open. But not to me. I wasn't satisfied at all, or rather I was entirely satisfied in my own mind that we were being sacrificed to our own uprightness."

"What companies are these that are breaking their pledges? How are they doing it? And where?"

"Mr. Wintermuth, I am absolutely convinced that three Conference companies in the Nolan agency, who represent us at Syracuse, are paying at least ten per cent excess commission on preferred business without going through the formality of demanding even a receipt for it. I know it to be a fact that at Trenton, New Jersey, the special agent of one of the biggest American companies—also a Conference member—makes a monthly visit for the purpose of putting into the agent's hands spot cash equal to the amount of the agent's illegitimate excess commissions for that month. The agent deducts his regular commission in his account, and gets this additional amount in cash, so that he gets a good deal more than what we can pay him under the rules. Is it any wonder, then, that our business is dropping off in these offices? And these are two cities only. I could name a dozen. That is why I asked you how deeply we were committed to the Conference."

The President rose, his eyes flashing.

"If these are facts capable of substantiation, we will be committed only until our resignation can take effect. I believe it takes thirty days' notice for a company to terminate its membership. If these cases are typical of others, and you can prove them, exactly thirty-one days later the Eastern Conference will lack one of its charter members."

"Oh, I can prove them, all right. Proof is pretty easily secured—circumstantial evidence enough to hang a man with any jury. But I didn't really think you'd look at it in quite this light, sir. I had not come to the point of recommending that the company withdraw from the Conference. It struck me that before we made that move, certain expedients might be tried."

"Expedients? Such as what, sir?"

"Well, I thought possibly you might be willing to—meet a few of these most open cases of competition with similar methods—"

He stopped, at the expression of his chief's face.

"You thought, did you, that because these men, my competitors, have no respect for their publicly pledged word, I would be willing to be equally indulgent. Mr. O'Connor, you have served a long time under me, and I am surprised at you! When James Wintermuth gets to the point where he is unable to live up to his promises, it will be time for him to quit. We are not in that business, sir."

The Vice-President summoned a forced smile to his lips.

"I think you misunderstood me, sir," he replied smoothly. "I would not myself suggest special commission deals at these places. Of course I agree with you that we should always respect our pledges. But at the same time it struck me that—"

"I don't want to hear what struck you," retorted Mr. Wintermuth, with unwonted asperity. "Let me see the proofs—I will take the necessary action. Is that what you have there—those papers?"

"One or two of them, sir. My principal ones naturally come from word of mouth. For example, I have talked with responsible men who have seen the Trenton agent's bank deposit slips for certain sums, dated, month after month, coincidently with the visit of a certain special agent. I can give you all the proofs any one could wish—if you need any more after what you have in your hand."

Mr. Wintermuth turned to his desk to indicate that the interview was over and he wished to be alone. And it was a well-satisfied conspirator who retired to his own office. Privately reflecting that the deed was as good as done, Mr. O'Connor returned almost instantly to his ruling passion of caution. Now to conceal or to make vague as far as possible his own intent in the matter.

"Ask Mr. Smith to step here a moment," he said to Jimmy, and a shadow of a smile crossed his face. The idea of using Smith to help serve as a foil for himself had an element of grim humor to which Mr. O'Connor was not entirely blind. Smith, of all men, by all means.

With a troubled expression on his face he turned to meet his subordinate.

"I've been talking to the chief about the crooked work in the Conference," he said. "Trenton and Syracuse and some of the rotten spots. I'm afraid I made it a little strong. I swear I didn't imagine he'd take the thing so much to heart or I believe I'd have kept still entirely."

"What did you tell him for?" asked the General Agent, not especially impressed.

"Well, I was getting pretty tired of seeing some of those fellows put it over us, and I thought perhaps he'd let us fight fire with—well, fireworks. Instead of which, he flew up to the ceiling. He wants to get out."

"Get out? Out of the Eastern Conference?" Smith inquired with more interest.

"Yes. And such a move might be justified, strictly speaking, but it seems to me a little extreme—just a little uncalled for. There are a few crooked companies in every agreement, concerns that take advantage of the good faith of the rest—like the Protection of Newark—but after all, even under present conditions, we're getting about as much business as we're entitled to, and pretty nearly as much as we're willing to write. What do you think?"

Smith looked sharply at his superior officer.

"Why do you put it up to me?" he asked. "If the President has decided to get out, that settles it—out we go."

"Oh, he hasn't absolutely decided. I thought I'd tell you about it, in case he asked you what you thought."

"I see," replied the General Agent, thoughtfully, and said no more.

"Well?" queried O'Connor, expectantly, after a moment.

"If he asks me, I'll tell him what I think. Is that all, sir?"

"Yes, that's about all."

The Vice-President, gazing a trifle uneasily at Smith's departing back, somehow felt that he could not flatter himself on having done what he wished toward the covering of his tracks. But, as it chanced, Mr. O'Connor's elaborate mechanism for befogging his trail was entirely wasted, for the President, so far as could be learned, said not a thing on the subject to anybody. He took home the papers O'Connor had left him, and studied them, presumably alone, for several days. He did not seek to cross-examine O'Connor's witnesses. From something that gentleman had said, he had gained the impression that outside parole evidence would probably be prejudiced, and he felt that the documents in his possession were sufficient to govern his verdict. He conceived that here was a matter for calm, deliberate judgment, for the exercise of the critical, judicial faculty, which he felt he possessed in a high degree. This was not precisely vanity; it was rather the long habit of undisputed dicta. He felt that here was an excellent opportunity for justifying his reputation for independence of decision and action.

So Mr. Wintermuth, pondering in silence for nearly a fortnight, left his Vice-President stretched on the rack of uncertainty without a glance in his direction. To all the tentative efforts O'Connor made to reopen the subject, his chief returned a curt refusal. There was nothing to do but to wait, and O'Connor, with increasingly bad grace, waited.

Not until the close of the second week was his suspense ended, and then not by any intimation from headquarters. Mr. Wintermuth had acted overnight, and had given his verdict directly to the press; and thus it was that the Vice-president, opening one morning the Journal of Commerce to the insurance page, found himself confronted by the headline:—

"Guardian Quits the Conference."

Mr. O'Connor sank back into his chair with a sigh of relief, and carefully read and reread the article from beginning to end. It was very brief, stating simply that Mr. Wintermuth had sent to the Conference the resignation of the Guardian, for "reasons which could be better imagined than discussed," and proposed henceforward to conduct the operations of the company without reference to any "unequally restrictive restrictions."

It was with positive buoyancy that the Vice-president delivered the paper into the hands of Jimmy, for its processional through the office.