“I think I'll call up and ask when it is expected that he can see visitors,” announced Fogg, with business briskness. “I wish Franklin had been here on deck--Franklin, himself.” “I don't believe Mr. Franklin would turn a trick of this sort,” asserted the clerk. “I'd hate to face him, after doing it myself.” “Franklin would be able to see further into a financial deal than a young chap,” said Mr. Fogg, severely, and then he found his number and made his call. “Good heavens!” he blurted, after a question. “I am in his office. Yes, I'll tell Boyne.” With a fine affectation of grief and surprise, he snapped the transmitter upon the hook and whirled on Boyne. His back had been toward the young man--he had spoken with hand across the receiver. “He has just died--he's dead! Franklin has passed away.” “I would have been notified,” gasped Boyne. “They were just going to call you. You heard me say I'd inform you.” “But I must call the hospital--offer my services. I must go up there.” Mr. Fogg put out his hand and pressed the young man back into his chair. “A lulu must be played quick and the pot raked sudden,” he reflected. “Just a moment, my son. Now you're standing on your own bottom. You won't have to explain to Mr. Franklin.” He pointed to the clock. His stories had consumed time. The hour was ten-thirty-five. “That annual meeting of the Vose line was called for ten of the clock to-day. Mr. Franklin was alive at that hour. He was the clerk of that corporation. What happens now will not embarrass you so far as he's concerned. Be sensible. Make a stroke for yourself. You're out of a job, anyway. Go to it, now.” Fogg spoke sharply, imperiously. He exerted over the young man all the force of his personality. “Five thousand dollars--protected by my interests--slipped out of sight for a few months--it's easy. Sit down there and make up your records; vote those proxies. Vote 'em, I say. This meeting was held at ten o'clock. Make up your records.” He stood over Boyne, arguing, promising, urging, and the young man, at last, sweating, flushed, trembling, bent over his documents, sorted them, and made up his records. “We'll send on a copy to the office of the Vose line by registered mail,” commanded Fogg. “Attest it as a copy of the true record by notary. When it drops in on 'em I will be there, with my directors and my little story--and the face of Uncle Vose will be worth looking at, though his language may not be elevating. You come out with me, Boyne. I'm going to the telegraph office.” “But I must get in touch at once with Mr. Franklin's family--offer my services,” pleaded the clerk. “There isn't a thing you can do right now,” snapped the masterful gentleman from New York. “I suggest that you close the office. Send the girl home. You should do that much out of respect to your employer's memory.”