Mr. Bigelow sat in the chair: behind and around him were the speakers of the evening, grouped with the Committee of the Society of the Preservation of the Home; before him extended rows upon rows of citizens, all of them vigorously applauding the last speaker, all of them, without regard to private cellars, bent upon stamping out the saloon evil in their suburb.

An usher mounted the platform and laid a folded slip of paper on the table. The Chairman unfolded it, read it with great composure, and inclined his head to signify an affirmative reply. This was the note:

“Mr. G. Hyde Bigelow.

“Dear Sir: May I see you for a few moments after the meeting, on business of great importance.

“Appleton Le Duc.”

“Probably a reporter,” thought the Chairman. A draft of his opening speech lay in his inside pocket, and if this man was attached to a reputable paper he would be welcome to it. Mr. Bigelow made it an invariable rule to be courteous to newspaper men.

At the close of the meeting, therefore, as he was donning his coat, the usher touched him on the arm.

“This is the man who wished to see you, Mr. Bigelow.”

The Chairman turned and beheld a tall, thin individual, with a long face, wearing somewhat conspicuous clothes.

“How do you do,” he said, in a genial tone, extending his hand.

The thin man took it and glanced sharply at Mr. Bigelow—a glance full of curious interest. A change had been taking place in Apples since we last saw him. Evidently the care of his wife and his wife's mother, and the prospect of a visit from the stork at once reducing the family income and materially increasing the outgo, had quieted the effervescence of his youth and set him thinking.

“If you have no objection,” said Le Duc, “I will walk along with you.”

“None whatever,” replied Mr. Bigelow.

They walked together out of the building and followed that part of the crowd which had turned westward.

“Well, sir,” observed, the Chairman, “what can I do for you?”

Le Due answered in a low, even voice—a voice which, if it showed embarrassment and effort, showed also determination.

“You were formerly married, I believe, to a woman who is now known as Mrs. Craig.”

Dwelling, as it had been, on the plaudits, the hearty enthusiasms of the evening, on the written speech reposing in an inside pocket, Mr. Bigelow's mind came to earth with a shock. He stopped abruptly, threw a quick look at the thin man, and then, recalling that the sidewalk was still covered with people, he moved on.

“Have you come here to discuss my private affairs?” he said brusquely.

“In a sense, yes. The matter has been put into my hands, and I thought the most satisfactory thing would be to come out here and talk to you. Of course, if you'd rather I'd see somebody else, it makes no difference to me.”

Mr. Bigelow was silent for a moment. Le Due glanced sideways at him as they passed under a corner light, and was glad to observe that he had penetrated the man's armour.

“Are you a lawyer?” was the Chairman's abrupt question.

“No, sir.”

“In what capacity have you come here?”

“Why, you see, Lizzie, Mrs. Craig's daughter, is my wife.”

Mr. Bigelow's reply was a half-audible grunt. “Mrs. Craig, you understand, is really suffering. She has no income and we have been keeping her with us; but I am not in a position to do much for her—not as much as I should like.”

“What do you want of me?”

“I believe—that you agreed to support her.”

“Well, how much do you want?”

“That isn't it, you see.” Somewhat eagerly this. “It wasn't only that you agreed to support her, but the courts decided that you should. So it isn't a question of what you might offer or me accept, but of how much is owing on past years. I think I can understand it—I suppose a man gets tired of paying out money he doesn't get any return for—and of course it's been a good many years——”

“Never mind about that.”

“Well—you see—I've thought there was some misunderstanding about the business. She says you told her to go to law if she wanted to, but I thought she must have misunderstood you. Of course, she could, you know, but her case is very good, I think. It would be expensive all 'round; and it mightn't be pleasant.”

Very true, Apples. It might be decidedly unpleasant, now that a voluble young man, with apparently no regard for the proprieties, has sprung up from nowhere to push matters.

“Well, what do you want?”

“I've talked it all over with Mrs. Craig and she has told me just how things stand. She has kept a pretty regular account of everything; and she figures it out about like this. There were five years, nearly five, anyhow—we don't want to quibble over that—when she was to all intents and purposes paid up. Since then there haven't been any regular payments, except about five hundred dollars that's been given her in small sums. It was to be a thousand dollars a year, I believe. Five thousand five hundred from seventeen thousand leaves eleven thousand five hundred still due her—call it an even eleven thousand.”

“You say you are not a lawyer?”

“No, sir.”

“What is your business?”

“I'm—I'm an actor.”

“Where do you play?”

“On the North Side.”

“What can you earn?”

“Well, the three of us—we are the three Le Ducs, you know—my wife and I, and Elmer, can get sixty a week for our turn.”

“You don't mean to say you have a son old enough to play with you?”

“Oh, no, no—we only call him Elmer Le Duc. We haven't been married so long as that. But——-” However, this was not business, and he checked the confidence that was never far from the end of his tongue nowadays.

“How long have you been on the stage?”

“Nearly three years.”

“What did you do before that?”

“I was at college.”

“What college?”

“Here, in Evanston.”

“So?”

They were now standing in front of the wide grounds of G. Hyde Bigelow. Peeping out from its screen of trees, far back behind the spacious lawn, could be seen the granite turrets of Mr. Bigelow's new house. The owner turned toward them as he reflected.

“I will tell you what you do, Mr.—Mr. ————”

“Le Duc.”

“Mr. Le Duc. You come to my office to-morrow at eleven. I think that by that time I will have a proposition that will interest you. Meantime, suppose we let this matter stand just where it is now. Is that satisfactory?”

“Why—certainly; perfectly so.”

“Very well, I shall look for you to-morrow at eleven. Good-night.”

“Maybe I had better leave one of my cards with you, sir.”

“Very well. Good-night.”

“Good-night.”

Mr. Bigelow turned into the grounds and disappeared among the trees, and Apples, bubbling with self-congratulations, hurried over to the trolley line.

Margaret was tired to-night. She was glad to be at home; and she threw herself on the library couch to rest for an hour while she awaited the final report of the day's labours. For George had been released from jail, thanks to the benevolence of the judge—himself a suburbanite—and to the clearness of the facts. It had called for very little effort on the part of Mr. Babcock, who had taken the case on his own shoulders, to make plain that George had been merely the cat's-paw of a gang of roughs. And now Mrs. Bigelow had promised Mr. Babcock that she would take in the boy and give him work about the house; so that apparently he was at last to have a start.

At length Mr. Babcock himself came in. He was almost jaunty this evening; and his voice was pitched higher than usual.

“How do you do, Miss Davies?” he exclaimed. “Here I am with my report.”

“You brought him out, did you?”

“Yes. Mrs. Bigelow has him and promises to take the best of care of him. He seems a likely boy—unfortunate he wasn't better brought up. But of course he may take a brace—such things have happened.”

“You know I have faith in George,” said Margaret warmly.

“Yes, I know. I hope you're right. Maybe you are. He'll be kept busy for awhile anyway, learning to groom the horses and milk the cows. That'll be good for him. Queer case, isn't it. Quite like a story. It has interested me immensely. Been a queer sort of day all around for me. If every day was like it I'd never get any business done. Came right in a busy season, too. Oh, I don't mean about the boy. That was because you were interested in him. I'd do as much any time you asked it—do it gladly. But I ran across Myers while I was over at the court building. He is going West, you know, for his wife's health, and wants to sell his house. You know it, don't you?—over on the Lake Front. He wants to sell bad and offers the place for next to nothing, so I promised him I'd stroll down there to-night and have a look at it. How would you like to go along? Your taste's rather better than mine, I think.”

“Why—isn't it a little late?” He had never talked like this before; she was puzzled.

“No—not so very—about nine. But I see you're tired, so don't think of it. Tell you what I'll do—I'll get him to let me have the plans, and we'll look them over together, and you tell me how they strike you. If it is in as good shape as I think I believe I'll buy—that is, if I can get a clear title.”

“It is very attractive along the shore.”

“That's the way it strikes me. And with good horses you'd hardly mind the distance. He says his library is finished in rose tints and Flemish oak. How does that sound?”

“Very pretty, I should think.”

“Yes, doesn't it? So you really like the idea? I'm glad of that. You're the one I care most about pleasing.” He rose and looked down at her. “There's no use telling me you aren't tired: I can see it. You've worked like a good one to-day, and I'm going to let you get a little rest.” She rose.

“I'll bring up the plans sometime before Sunday, and we'll go over them and see what we make of it. Good-night.”

She smiled wearily and stood there until he had left the house; then she went upstairs and into Mrs. Davies's room.

“Mother,” she said, with an odd little smile, “I want to go away.”

“Where, child?”

“I don't know—-East, perhaps.”

Mrs. Davies looked quietly up from her knitting. “'How long have you been thinking of this?” she asked.

“Not very long—just to-day.”

They looked at each other for a moment in that same quiet way—Margaret still smiling, but with a suspicious shine in her eyes. Then suddenly she came over, slipped to the floor, and buried her face on her arms in her mother's lap.

After a long silence Mrs. Davies asked:

“When would you like to go, dear?” There was no reply. “Very soon?” Margaret raised her head a little way and was apparently about to speak, then lowered it again. “Would you like to go this week?” Still there was silence. But Mrs. Davies seemed to understand. “We might get away by Thursday or Friday, dearie, if you can get ready. Can you?”

And Margaret murmured, without looking up: “Oh, yes, yes! I can be ready to-morrow.”

As time went by the wisdom of Halloran's method of buying lumber became apparent. If the orders had not gone in almost simultaneously to the offices of the different companies the directors would probably have put their heads together and declined meeting such an unusually heavy demand. As it fell out, however, when the heads did finally go together, it was discovered that the mischief had been done, that nearly six million feet of lumber had been sold, in thirty or forty different lots, and for about $50,000 less than it would have brought at the normal rates. The possibility of speculators buying in the lumber had been discussed from the first; but the directors had not dreamed that such a movement could be actually completed before they could know it was going on. And then they found that each of the twenty odd companies had been pledged to these orders through its own authorized agents. Even now, after the door had been closed on an empty stable, it was not plain what per cent, of the sales had gone to speculators; for nearly every order had come from a regular dealer in one of a score of different cities and towns.

Halloran soon found it difficult to buy, except in occasional small lots. His instructions to his agents still held good, however; and he hoped to increase his stock until he should have enough on hand to make good all the losses resulting from the fight. That was his idea—to make Bigelow pay the bills. Once this point was reached he would show his hand by bringing all the lumber to Wauchung.

At this stage of the fight there was a pause. On one hand Halloran's countermove was practically ended; on the other, the Bigelow forces appeared as determined as ever to keep down prices and force Higginson out of business. Rumours were floating now and then, to be sure, that there was trouble in Kentucky Coal, but there was nothing at all definite. .

One morning in the office—a nearly idle morning, as came about frequently now—Crosman remarked casually over his paper:

“There's a big fight on in corn on the Board of Trade.”

“Something new, eh?”

“Yes. It seems the secret has just leaked out. A man named Le Duc———”

“Le Duc!”

“Yes—Appleton Le Duc—sounds like a Frenchman, doesn't it?”

Halloran left his chair and came over to Cros-man's side.

“Excuse me,” he said. “May I see it?”

“Certainly; take it, if you like. I'm through with it. It's a queer story.” He went on talking while Halloran was reading. “It seems he's a new man at the business, but they're calling him the new Com King already. They say he shows a regular genius for it. It looks as if he was going to corner the market. The paper says he used to be an actor.”

Halloran laid down the paper and perched himself on the corner of Crosman's flat-top desk.

“That's queer business,” he observed. “The last time I heard of Apples he was playing at a third-class variety house.”

“Friend of yours?”

“I knew him in college. If the paper weren't so sure about it, I'd say it was a mistake. He never did it himself—he hasn't any money, to begin with. Somebody's using him for a cat's-paw, plain enough; but I'd like to know how the Moses he ever got hold of a snap like that?” Halloran shook his head over it. “Do you ever read Mark Twain?”

“I have—some.”

“Do you remember the story of the bad little boy that got rich and went to Congress, and died universally respected?”

“Never read that.”

“Well, it makes me think of Apples. The two poorest skates we had in college are turning out about the same way. The other fellow was a lazy beggar from down in Indiana. Came up to college to play baseball, but he didn't have grit enough to make the team. He never got anywhere in his work—spent three years in his fourth year Academy, I believe, before he gave it up. And no one ever knew how he lived. But one of the directors of a big steel company used to live out there, and this fellow scraped up money enough to buy a dress suit and join the local club, and took to playing billiards and drinking with the director's son, and finally got invited around to meet the family. Now he's the assistant secretary of the steel company, and has announced his engagement to the director's daughter. Enough to make you wonder a little sometimes, isn't it?”

The office door opened, just then, so abruptly that they both started. Looking up, they saw Captain Craig standing in the doorway, hatless, holding an open letter in his hand. He looked straight at Halloran as if he saw nothing else in the office.

“I want to see you,” he said.

At the odd sound of his voice, Crosman got up without a word and brushed by him into the outer office, gently pushing the door to behind him.

“Sit down, Captain,” said Halloran.

The Captain took the chair by the desk.

“I went up to the house to see the Old Gentleman, but they wouldn't let me in.”

“No; he is not allowed to see anybody. Will I do?”

Craig seemed not to hear the reply. “I got a letter just now—and I wondered if I couldn't get away for a little while—I guess I won't be needed on the steamer?”

“Certainly not.”

“I got a letter this morning—I didn't know as I read it straight—I haven't got my glasses with me——-” It seemed difficult for him to speak naturally, and he paused, staring at a glass paper-weight on the desk. His seamed, harsh old face was working. “My God! Mr. Halloran,” he broke out, “I don't hardly dare believe it! Here, read it.”

Halloran took the letter and read what follows:

“Father: I have waited a long, long time, and now I'm tired and I want to come home. You were right always—it was all a mistake. Now when I look back there are some parts of it that are like dreams to me. Do you think you could forgive me? Do you think you could let me come back and take care of your house for you?

“I was all wrong, but I am older now—I have a girl of my own who has grown up and married—and I think I could understand better. I can imagine better, too, how you have suffered—how I have made you suffer—and now that there are times when my life seems clouded and unreal—some days and weeks even, when I look back I can hardly remember what I have said or done, or how I have lived—when I think of this, and think how my life seems to be slipping away from me, a little at a time, I feel that I just must come back to you. Of course, nothing can be undone, nothing can be lived over. I know that bitterly now—I feel it all the time, and especially at night when I lie awake and all these years come whirling up in my mind and confuse me and discourage me. But I have tried not to grow bitter. I have been hungry a good many times, and cold, and haven't had much to wear, but I have tried always to remember that the only way out is just the patient, honest way.

“There may not be many years left to us, but wouldn't it be better to try to make them happy years? You see I'm writing as if I felt you had already forgiven me—I can't help it.

“Elizabeth is married, as I told you, and hasn't room for me any more. But, George is not a bad boy—you will like George, father, I know. And perhaps he will grow up into something better than I and make you feel yet that it was worth while.

“It is nineteen years to-day since you brought me down here on the old Number One—do you remember? I have never forgotten how you looked when you stood on the bridge and waved good-by. Well, my married life was not what I thought it would be, but somehow now, while I am writing this, it seems almost as if I could cut this long part of my life right out, and take up the first part again where I left it off that day. You will find me changed—I am getting to be quite an old woman—if all goes well, I may be a grandmother before the year is gone. Think of that!

“Oh, father, I don't know what I am thinking of to be writing like this, when I ought to be down on my knees to you. But I can't help it. Can you forgive me, and let me begin again?

“Jennie Craig.”

Halloran gazed at the letter until the silence grew oppressive and then he looked out the window. Craig was still staring at the paperweight; and when he finally spoke it was without shifting his eyes.

“She was only eighteen when she went down to Chicago to work for Bigelow. She didn't know any better—G. Hyde Bigelow wasn't above marrying his clerk in those days. And then she found him out and got a divorce; and I've never heard since, until to-day. I guess—I guess there's a little pride in our family—she's never written—and I haven't. But, oh, God! Mr. Halloran———”

Halloran turned at the exclamation, and then, with such a sense of helplessness as he had never before known, he lowered his eyes. For the Captain was crying.

“I'm going right down there,” the broken voice went on. “Have you a time-table here?” Halloran fumbled in his drawer, found the time-table, looked over the train schedule, marked the right column with his pencil and laid it before the Captain.

“When is that? Ten-thirty?”

“Yes; ten-thirty.”

“That's in about an hour. Well, then, I suppose——-” He made as if to rise, but settled back again. Finally Halloran spoke.

“I think I know your daughter, Captain.”

“You know her?”

“Yes; I saw her several times a few years ago. I can tell you a good deal about George, too.”

“She's a good girl. We used to think she took after me a little. I think maybe—I think I'll bring her right back with me to-night or tomorrow; and then you can come around and see us.”

“Yes. What would you say if I were to go down with you, Captain. Perhaps I could help you find her and George.” He hesitated a moment. “We'll bring the boy back, too. I guess we can manage to keep him busy around the office until the mills start up again.”

“Do you know how old he is?”

“George must be about sixteen, I should say.”

“And the girl is married—she must be older—I guess I'm a little bewildered.” He got up now and stood silent by the desk.

“I'll be ready for you in half an hour, Captain.” There seemed to be nothing more to say; and after another silence Craig went out. But later, during the hours on the train, Halloran had to tell over and over what he knew about George and Lizzie, their mother, and Le Duc.