Porter had wakened that morning with a pain-racked body and the hot taste of fever in his mouth. He dressed and went downstairs to breakfast, but left the table and returned to his room to lie down.

"I'll be all right in an hour or so; I guess I've taken cold," he said to Evelyn. At the end of an hour he was shaking with a chill.

Evelyn left him alone to telephone for the doctor and in her absence he tried to rise and fainted. He was still lying on the floor when she returned. When the doctor came he found the household in a panic, and almost before Porter realized it, he was hazily watching the white cap of the trained nurse whom the doctor ordered with his medicines.

"Your father has a fever of some sort," he said to Evelyn. "It may be only a severe attack of malaria; but it's probably typhoid. In any event, there's nothing to be alarmed about. Mr. Porter has one of the old-fashioned constitutions," he added, reassuringly, "and there's nothing to fear for him."

Porter protested all the morning that he would go to his office after luncheon, but the temperature line on the nurse's chart climbed steadily upward. He resented the tyranny of the nurse, who moved about the room with an air of having been there always, and he was impatient under the efforts of Evelyn to soothe him. The doctor came again at noon. He was of Porter's age and an old friend; he dealt frankly with his patient now. Evelyn stood by and listened, adding her own words of pleading and cheer; and while the doctor gave instructions to the nurse outside, he relaxed, and let her smooth his pillow and bathe his hot brow.

"This may be my turn—" he began.

"Not by any manner of means, father," she broke in with a lightness she did not feel. It moved her greatly to see his weakness.

"It's an unfortunate time," he said, "and there's something you must do for me. I've got to see Wheaton or Fenton. It's very important."

"But you mustn't, father; business can wait until you're well again. It will be only a few days—"

"You mustn't question what I ask," he went on very steadily. "It's of great importance," and she knew that he meant it.

"Can't I see them for you?" she asked. He turned his slight lean body under the covers, and shook his head helplessly on his pillow.

"You see you can't talk, father," she said very gently. "Is there anything I can say to them for you?"

"Yes," he said weakly, "I want you to give the key to one of my boxes to Wheaton. Tell him to take out a package—marked Traction—and give it to Fenton."

Evelyn brought his key ring and he pointed out the key and watched her slip it from the ring.

"I'll send for Mr. Wheaton at once," she said. "Don't worry any more about it, father."

"Evelyn!" She had started for the door, but now hurried back to him.

"Don't tell him anything over the telephone; just ask him to come up." She went out at once that he might be assured, and he turned wearily on his pillow and slept.

Porter's illness was proclaimed in the first editions of the afternoon papers, which Wheaton saw at his desk. News gains force by publication, and when he read the printed statement that the president of the Clarkson National Bank was confined to his house by illness, he felt that Porter must really be very sick; and he naturally turned the fact over in his mind to see how this might affect him. The directors came in and sat about in the directors' room with their hats on, and Wingate, the starch manufacturer, who had seen Porter's doctor, pronounced the president a very sick man and suggested that Thompson, the invalid vice-president, ought to be notified. The others acquiesced, and they prepared a telegram to Thompson at Phoenix, suggesting his immediate return, if possible.

Wheaton sat with them and listened respectfully. When he was first appointed to his position, he had waited with a kind of awe for the pronouncements of the directors; but he had acquired a low opinion of them. He certainly knew more about the affairs of the bank than any of them except Porter and he knew more than Porter of the details. During this informal conference of the directors, Wheaton was called to the telephone, and was cheered by the sound of Evelyn's voice. She asked him to come up as soon as convenient; she wished to give him a message from her father, who was very comfortable, she said. After dinner would do; she knew that he must be very busy. He expressed his sympathy formally, and went back to the directors with a kindlier feeling toward the world. There was a consolation for him in the knowledge that Miss Porter must summon him to her in this way; her father's illness made another tie between them.

Wingate and the others came out of the directors' room as he put down the telephone receiver, and they stood talking at his desk. He found a secret pleasure in being able to answer at once the questions which Wingate put to him, as to how the discounts were running, and what they were carrying of county money, and how much government money they had on hand. Wingate knew no more of banking than he knew of Egyptian hieroglyphics; but he thought he did, because he had read the national banking act through and had once met the comptroller of the currency at dinner. The other directors listened to Wheaton's answers with admiration. When they got outside Wingate remarked, as they stood at the front door before dispersing:

"I wish to thunder I could ask Jim Wheaton something just once that he didn't know. That fellow knows every balance in the bank, and the date of the maturity of every loan. He's almost too good to be true."

They laughed.

"I guess Jim's all right," said the wholesale dry goods merchant, who was a good deal impressed with the fact of his directorship.

"Sure," said Wingate. "But you can bet Thompson's lungs will get a lot better when he gets our telegram." They had no great belief in Thompson's invalidism. It is one of the drolleries of our American life that men, particularly in Western cities, never dare to be ill; it is much nobler and far more convenient to die than to be sick.

Fenton spent the afternoon in court. He intended to call at the Porters' on his way home, and stopped at the bank before going to his office, thinking that the banker might be there; but the president's desk was closed.

"How sick is Mr. Porter?" he asked Wheaton.

"He's pretty sick," said Wheaton. "It's typhoid fever."

Fenton whistled.

"That's what the doctor calls it. I spoke to Miss Porter over the telephone a few minutes ago, and she did not seem to be alarmed about her father. He's very strong, you know."

But Fenton was not listening. "See here, Wheaton," he said suddenly, "do you know anything about Porter's private affairs?"

"Not very much," said Wheaton guardedly.

"I guess you don't and I guess nobody does, worse luck! You know how morbidly secretive he is, and how he shies off from publicity,—I suppose you do," he went on a little grimly. He did not like Wheaton particularly. "Well, he has some Traction stock,—the annual meeting is held to-morrow and he's got to be represented."

"He never told me of it," said Wheaton, truthfully.

"His shares are probably in his inside pocket, or hid under the bed at home; but we've got to get them if he has any, and get them quick. If he has his wits he'll probably try and send word to me. I suppose I couldn't see him if I went up."

"Miss Porter telephoned me to come,—on some business matter, she said, and no doubt that's what it is."

"Then I won't go just now, but I'll see you here as soon as you get down town. I'll be at my office right after dinner." He paused, deliberating. Fenton was a careful man, who rose to emergencies.

"I'll come directly back here," said Wheaton. "No doubt the papers you want are in one of Mr. Porter's private boxes."

"Can you get into it to-night?"

"Yes; it's in the vault where we keep the account books, and there's no time lock."