Macgowan sat in spellbound silence. As he listened, a singular awe and wonder crept into his face. His eyes, fascinated by Armstrong's swordlike gaze, began to waver; an indefinite something showed there that might have gripped Armstrong's attention, had he only seen it. One never sees such expressions, however, when they are foreign to all that one is expecting to see. Armstrong went on rapidly, fired by his thought. "That's what put Napoleon over--the knowledge that every man in his army knew he would win; and, damn it, he had to win! Same with me, Mac. You've made Consolidated airtight, you've left me nothing to fear at my back. I can look squarely ahead and can meet anything that comes. With the faith and will-power of sixteen thousand people at my back, what can beat me? Nothing! Nothing! It's not self-confidence; it's confidence in the power behind me, the power instilled into me! Can't you see that?" Macgowan shifted his pose restlessly, before he came to his feet, jabbing at Armstrong with his cigar, an oath of admiration breaking on his lips. He seemed swept away, enthused beyond words, almost. "Reese--oh, what's the use!" He made a despairing gesture. "I'm proud to have a share in your vision, proud to take orders from you. Now, if Findlater starts any fuss, you want him soft-pedaled. Is that it?" Armstrong relaxed, nodding, a bit self-conscious and ashamed of his outburst. "Yes. That's what you and Jimmy Wren have the voting trust for!" "Oh! That reminds me--" Macgowan was picking up his coat and hat and stick. He turned and came back to the desk, looking thoughtfully down at Armstrong. "I nearly forgot something. About Wren." Armstrong glanced up inquiringly. Wren was not only his right-hand man in the Armstrong Company, but was secretary of Consolidated. Although not so young in years, Jimmy Wren possessed that eternal buoyancy, that youthfulness of spirit, which older men envy. His imagination and impulsiveness added to his ability; he was all or nothing. "What about Jimmy?" Macgowan looked serious. "It may not be true. I just heard that, before Wren came to us, he was mixed up in a nasty affair back in Ohio. A small country bank, which went bust. Wren was cashier, and squeaked through, but it was close. Know anything about it?" Armstrong squared himself in his chair. "I know all about it." "Good. Then I've no more to say." "Hold on!" Armstrong's voice cracked out suddenly. "You _have_ something more to say, Mac. I want to know where this report came from." Macgowan met those clear, angry eyes with unruffled mien. "From a federal man. You know, I've a good many friends in Washington. One of them, in the revenue service, was going over some income tax returns with me. We got to talking about the company, and he mentioned this about young Wren. He knew few details." "Then it was simply a friendly tip?" "Sure." Armstrong nodded. His face cleared.