"Mr. Drummond begs you to be seated," the valet announced, with what seemed an unnecessary accent on the "mister," then moved silently out. Mr. Wylie remarked to himself upon the value of discreet servants. They were very valuable; very hard to get in America. This must be some lifelong servitor in his lordship's family. There was no occasion to inquire the identity of the tall, florid Englishman in tweeds who entered a moment later, a bundle of estimates in his hand. "Sir Thomas Drummond, Chairman of the Royal Barrata Bridge Commission," was written all over him in large type. His lordship did not go to the trouble of welcoming his visitor, but scanned him frigidly through his glasses. "You are Mr. Jackson Wylie, Senior?" he demanded, abruptly. "That is my name." "President of the Atlantic Bridge Company, of Newark, New Jersey?" "The same." "You received a cablegram from your son in London?" "Yes, your lordship." Sir Thomas made a gesture as if to forego the title. "Let me see it, please." Mr. Wylie produced the cablegram, and Drummond scanned it sharply. Evidently the identification was complete. "Does any one besides your son and yourself know the contents of this message?" "Not a soul." "You have not told any one of my coming?" "No, sir!" "Very well." Sir Thomas appeared to breathe easier; he deliberately tore the cablegram into small bits, then tossed the fragments into a wastepaper basket before waving his caller to a chair. He still remained very cold, very forceful, although his stiff formality had vanished. "Do you understand all about this bridge?" he inquired. Wylie senior took the cue of brusqueness and nodded shortly. "Can you build it in the time specified?" "With ease." "Have you submitted your bid?" "Not yet. I--" "What is the amount of your proposal?" The president of the Atlantic Bridge Company gasped. This was the boldest, the coldest work he had ever experienced. Many times he had witnessed public officials like Sir Thomas Drummond approach this delicate point, but never with such composure, such matter-of-fact certainty and lack of moral scruple. Evidently, however, this Englishman had come to trade and wanted a direct answer. There was no false pose, no romance here. But Jackson Wylie, Sr., was too shrewd a business man to name a rock-bottom price to begin with. The training of a lifetime would not permit him to deny himself a liberal leeway for hedging, therefore he replied, cautiously: "My figures will be approximately £1,400,000 sterling." It was his longest speech thus far. For what seemed an hour to the bridge-builder Sir Thomas Drummond gazed at him with a cold, hard eye, then he folded his papers, rolled up his blue-prints, placed them in the big traveling-bag, and carefully locked it. When he had finished he flung out this question suddenly: "Does that include the Commissioners?"