“Wait, then, until my office building is up,” he said, trying to disguise by affected gayety how he was touched. “Art glass was only my struggle for a foothold. I am by education an architect.” “_Your_ office building! Who is it for?” “John Throckmorton. But he doesn’t know it yet.” “John Throckmorton, the banker?” Billee gurgled and gasped. Then she suppressed a little scream and stared wildly. “Yes, the plans are all ready.” “Has he seen them?” “No; there’s the hitch. He has only talked about a thirty-five story building out in Chicago, a trust fund investment. So far it has been impossible to break through the guard around him. Harvard couldn’t do it.” She was silent a long moment, with parted lips, still staring at him. “Listen, King. Do you believe in premonitions?” “Hunches? Yes. Terence, my office boy, has one every time there is a big game on up at the park, and he needs somebody to finance him. They never fail.” “I have one now. Try again--for my sake, won’t you?” “For your sake, I’ll camp on Throckmorton’s trail like a poor relation. What time has your premonition selected?” “To-morrow at twelve o’clock.” “Sounds more like lunch than hunch.” “Send your card in at twelve. Will you?” “I’ll gamble on you once, Billee. At twelve my card goes in--for your sake. At twelve one I come out, for my own,” he laughed. “You promise? King, I am really very superstitious.” “So am I--about you.” At twelve o’clock next day King handed his card to the red-headed outer guard at Banker Throckmorton’s office. To his everlasting astonishment, the boy smiled genially. “Come in, Mr. Dubignon,” he said. And by the inner guard and the extreme inner guard and the secretary entanglements, King marched straight into the august Presence. All roads led to Rome. Ten minutes later he came out, his head in the clouds. His cherished plans for a thirty-five story office building were behind him. Billee’s eyes danced when he told her the story. But he went no more. The banker had promised to send for him when he got a report on the plans from older architects. He did not send, and Billee was away in Boston with that restless old woman. What the devil did she want to be prancing around the country for at her age? Meaning the old woman, of course. Hope began to shrivel. The office building grew smaller. It lost a story a day for thirty-five days. Nothing but the cellar, a hole in the ground, was left. He laid himself down in that and pulled the hole in. And the green grass grew all around. Then Billee came back with a rush, and things began to move. Fate had completed her gambit. She pushed a queen. The queen was Billee, of course. A wonderful day was at hand, for King. CHAPTER VII