Mr. Alexander Chambers sat in the center of his airy private office, panelled to the ceiling in Flemish oak, looking through the selections from the Monday morning's mail his secretary had just laid upon his great glass-topped desk. His lofty forehead, crowned with soft, white hair, made one think of the splendid dome of Walter Scott. But below the forehead, in the face that was beginning to be netted with fine wrinkles, there was neither poetry nor romanticism: power, that was all—power under perfect mastery. The gray eyes were quiet, steady; the mouth, half hid under a thick, short-cropped, iron-gray moustache, was a firm straight line; the jaw was a great triangle with the squared apex as a chin. Facetious persons sometimes referred to that triangular chin as "Chambers's cowcatcher;" but many there were who said that those that got in Chambers's way were never thrown aside to safety, but went down beneath the wheels.

As he skimmed the letters through with a rapidity that in him seemed ease, there was nothing about him to suggest the "human dynamo," which has come to be the popular conception of the man of vast business achievement—no violent outward show of effort, no whirring of wheels, no coruscating flashes of escaping electricity. He ran noiselessly, effortlessly, reposefully. Those who knew him intimately could no more have imagined Alexander Chambers in a strain than Providence.

He glanced the last letter through—a report from Mr. Jordon on the negotiations for the land controlled by Rogers—pushed the heap aside and touched a button. Immediately there entered a young man of twenty-eight or thirty.

"Please have Mr. Jordon come over as soon as he can," Mr. Chambers said in a quiet voice to his secretary.

"Yes, sir. I was just coming to tell you, when you rang, that Mr. Allen is waiting to see you."

"Have him come in."

As Allen entered Mr. Chambers raised his strong, erect figure to his feet and held out his hand with a smile. "How are you, Allen. You look as fresh as a spring morning."

"Then I look as I feel. I'm just back from Myrtle Hill. It was a glorious two days—though we missed you a lot."

"Come now, some of the party may have missed me—but you, did you think of me once?" Those who knew Mr. Chambers in a business way alone, would have felt surprise at the humorous wrinkles that radiated from the outer corners of his eyes. "The next time I arrange for a weekend party I'll see that the wires to Boston are cut. But how did you leave Helen?"

They sat down. "With nothing to be desired in point of health"—Allen hesitated a moment—"and everything to be desired in point of her regard for me."

Mr. Chambers considered Allen's strongly masculine face. "You'll win her in the end, as you've won everything else—by fighting right on. There's no one that ranks higher with her than you."

"She's told me if an edict were passed compelling her to marry to-morrow, I'd be the man. But—she's not eager for the edict."

"You've won her head, at least. That's progress."

"Not even all her head. She disapproves of my ideas. She made that clear to me again yesterday. I tell you, I do wish her concern in St. Christopher's and such things could be—well, at least lessened quite a bit."

"That's hardly possible—her concern is too deeply rooted." Mr. Chambers shook his head reminiscently. "She has it from her mother."

"Yes, but the strength with which she holds to it—that she has from you. I suppose there is little chance of uprooting her convictions. But—I feel I've gained one concession."

"Yes?"

"She's promised at the end of five weeks to give me her yes or no."

Mr. Chambers leaned forward and grasped Allen's hand. "You know which answer I want. And I'm sure it will be that."

They looked at each other steadily a moment, then settled back into their chairs.

"Now about that merger," said Allen. "That's what brought me in." And Allen, who handled the legal side of many of Mr. Chambers's affairs, began to discuss certain legal details of a railroad consolidation Mr. Chambers had under consideration.

The instant Allen was out of the office, the secretary announced Mr. Jordon and at Mr. Chambers's order ushered him in. Mr. Jordon, a man whom prosperity had flushed and bulked, wished Mr. Chambers good morning with that little tone of deference which a successful business man uses to a more successful business man, and seated himself in the leather-covered chair Allen had just vacated.

Mr. Chambers picked up Mr. Jordon's letter from the heap on his desk.

"I wanted to speak to you about the price this Mr. Rogers insists on for the land he controls," he said in his even voice. "It is at a far higher rate than we paid for the rest of the land. You've done all that's possible to get him to lower his terms?"

"Everything!" For emphasis Mr. Jordon clapped two fat hands down upon two fat knees. "But he's as solid as a rock. If we were dealing with the real owners individually, it would be different. They're anxious to sell and they're all short on nerve. It's him that holds them together and keeps them braced up."

"I suppose you've tried to get them to withdraw their land from his control?"

"I tried that long ago. But it wouldn't work. He's promised them a big price, and he's made them believe they'll get it."

"Then you think as you say here"—he laid his hand upon the letter—"that we'd better pay him what he demands and close the deal?"

"I certainly do. We've got to have that land, and to get it we've got to pay his price. He knows that and he won't come down a dollar. Since we've got to pay the price in the end, I'm for paying it right now and not losing any more time in launching the company before the public."

"Your reasoning is sound. But you're aware, of course, that the difference between his price and the rate we've been paying is considerably over fifty thousand?"

"Yes, but we're not going to lose money on it even at that." Mr. Jordon nodded knowingly. "Besides, when we come to counting up the profits on the whole deal, we'll never miss that fifty thousand."

"Fifty thousand dollars, Mr. Jordon," Mr. Chambers said quietly, "is fifty thousand dollars."

Mr. Jordon blushed as though caught in an ill deed. "Yes—yes—of course," he stammered. "We don't want to lose it, but how are we going to help it?"

Mr. Chambers did not answer—gave no sign of having noticed the other's embarrassment. "Suppose we have a meeting here to-morrow afternoon, and try again to get him to lower his price."

"Very well—I'll write him to be here. But I warn you that he'll not come down a cent."

"Then I suppose we'll have to settle on some other basis." There was a moment's pause. "By the way, who is this Mr. Rogers?"

"Never heard of him till I ran across him in this deal. Nobody seems to know much about him. He's just a little two-for-a-cent agent that was cute enough to see this chance and grab it."

Mr. Chambers said no more, and Mr. Jordon, seeing that use for himself was over, departed.

Mr. Chambers had an instinct for loss that was like a composer's ear for false notes. In his big financial productions he detected a possible loss instantly; it pained him as a discord, and he at once set about correcting it. The New Jersey Home Company was but one of the many coexisting schemes that had sprung from his creative brain, and the fifty thousand dollars was a beggar's penny compared to the sums that floated through his mind. But the fifty thousand dollars was a loss, a flaw, and he could not pass it by.

Mr. Chambers had the theory, proved by long practice, that many men have something hidden away in their lives which if discovered and properly used, or some vulnerable business spot which if struck, will so disable them that they cannot stand up against your plans. This theory, applied, had turned for him many a hopeless struggle into a quiet, easy victory—so that it had become his practice, when dealing with a man whose past life and whose present business relations he did not know, to acquaint himself with all that could be uncovered.

The moment Mr. Jordon had gone Mr. Chambers wrote a line, requesting full information about Rogers, and enclosed it in an envelope which he addressed to the man who usually served him in such confidential matters. He touched a button and handed the note to his secretary. "See that Mr. Hawkins gets this at once," he said.

That afternoon a man, whom David afterward remembered as a diamond ring, a diamond shirt-stud and a heavy gold watch-chain, walked into the office of John Rogers.

"Is this Mr. Rogers?" he asked of David, who was alone in the room.

"No. Aldrich is my name. But I represent him. Can I do anything for you?"

"I'd like to see him if I can. I'm thinking of investing in some real estate in this neighbourhood, and I've been looking at a couple of houses that I was told he was agent for."

"I'll call him—wait a minute."

David went into the living room, and at once returned. "Mr. Rogers will be right in," he said.

"Thanks." The man turned his pinkish face about the room. "Cosy little office you've got, for this part of town," he remarked, with an air of speaking pleasantries to kill time.

"Yes—we think so."

"How long's Mr. Rogers been interested in real estate in this neighbourhood?"

"I've been with him for less than a year, so I don't exactly know. But I believe about eight or nine years."

"In the same business before then?"

But the entrance of Rogers at that instant saved David a reply. The caller, who had sat down, rose and held out his hand.

"Is this Mr. Rogers? Harris is my name—William Harris."

Rogers, as he came up, laid hold of the back of a chair. He did not see Mr. Harris's hand.

"I'm glad to meet you," he returned in his low voice. "Won't you sit down?"

The three took chairs, and the next hour was filled with talk about the houses Mr. Harris had examined. Mr. Harris was very eager for the buildings, and David became excited at the prospect of the agent's commission that would come from the sale. But Rogers was quiet and reserved as always—answering all questions fully, save a few casual personal queries which he evaded. When Mr. Harris went away he said in so many words that the deal was as good as settled, except for a small difference in the price which would bother them little.

The instant the office door closed upon Mr. Harris David turned eagerly to Rogers, who was sitting motionless in his chair.

"Won't that be a windfall though if he takes those houses!" he cried. "Your commission will be at least two thousand dollars!"

There was no tinge of enthusiasm in Rogers's pale cheeks. He did not speak at once, and when he did he ignored David's exclamations.

"Did you notice, Aldrich," he said in a strained voice, "that I avoided taking his hand when he offered it at first and again when we parted?"

"No. Why?"

"I was afraid."

"Afraid?" repeated David, puzzled. "What of?"

"I shook hands with Bill Halpin—and you know what he found out."

David stepped nearer to Rogers, and saw in his eyes the look of hunted fear.

"I don't understand," he said slowly.

"Mr. Harris may be a bona-fide dealer in real estate—but fifteen years ago he was one of the cleverest detectives on the New York police force. I recognised him the instant I saw him. He helped arrest me once."

David sank slowly to a chair. "You don't say so!" he ejaculated. He stared for several moments at Rogers's thin face, on which he could now see the exhaustion of the straining interview. "Do you think he can possibly be on your trail?—and if so, what for?"

"What for, I don't know. But didn't you notice how he was constantly studying me?—how he slipped in a question about what I used to do?—how he tried to learn the names of some of my friends, whom he might quiz about me? He's clever."

"But do you think he found out anything?"

"I don't think he did. I was watching him closer than he was watching me, for any least sign of recognition. I didn't see any. But you know I can't help fearing, Aldrich! I can't help fearing!"

David tried to drive the strained, hunted look from Rogers's face by saying that there was hardly any possibility of his identity being discovered, and no apparent motive for it being used against him even if found out. David succeeded in bringing back his own confidence, and at length drew from Rogers the admission, "Well, maybe you're right."