With much more eagerness than he had shown over his exploits with copper and sulfur, he sketched the story of his great idea, which had first taken possession of him that last night of his week’s stay in Paris, while he wandered through the silent streets. He told of the vision that had come to him in the snowy heights of the Arizona mountains, in the silence of earth and sky—a vision of beautiful art that might be created into reality by the aid of the wealth which he could give it. He had set himself earnestly to the task of getting the necessary gold out of the ground, and all through these years, in the vigils of his lonely nights in the mining camp, he had nursed his vision. He poured out his heart freely to Farson, because he was young and a would-be dramatist, and could understand; and Farson, listening to the story of this idea, became warmed with the enthusiasm of the other and forgot his habitual journalistic skepticism. “It’s big!” he murmured. “And now it will no longer be just an idea. It’s to become fact! I have the money—at least, it’s mine for the present.” Brainard corrected himself. “One can do something with half a million or so a year.” “Half a million a year!” the young man gasped. “More or less—at present rather more, I should say,” Brainard admitted carelessly. “Depends on the market for crude sulfur, you understand. It’s pretty strong just now. And there’s the copper to fall back upon, when the price of copper goes up. There’s no need to worry about the money.” Just here they were interrupted by a boy with a card. “Show the gentleman up!” Brainard exclaimed, glancing a second time at the card. The magazine man rose reluctantly to go, saying: “Another time, if you would be good enough to tell me more about your plans—” “Don’t go!” Brainard interrupted warmly. “If you are interested, stay, and you will hear more about my great idea. This gentleman has come from Chicago by appointment to talk it over.” “Thanks!” “Why don’t you drop that magazine job?” Brainard suggested abruptly. “I shall need a secretary. I think you would be the right sort. Why not begin _now_?” “Done!” the journalist exclaimed boyishly, and they shook hands. This was a millionaire after his own heart, who did things casually at the drop of the hat with the most surprising ease. “You’ll have a better chance to write your plays,” Brainard remarked genially. It pleased him to think that here, on the spot where he had experienced his last defeat, he was able to play the part of good fortune to youth. “Somehow,” said Farson enthusiastically, “I feel it’s going to be like a play all the time with you!”