Such was the firm: Mr. Nathan Lot and his son Jabez; Mr. Seth Wetherbee and his son Eben, and Mr. Rawter who had been given a nominal quantity of stock after thirty-five years’ service. In due course Mr. Sproxley would qualify for this illumination.... And yet not all. Staring down from the arch over the president’s door was a dour, white, big-chinned face, done in oils long ago--almost yellow-white, the black shoulder deadening away into the background; small eyes, wide mouth, but firmly hung--grandfather to Mr. Nathan, but no dreamer; great grand-sire to Mr. Jabez, but nothing loose-mouthed about the face of this, the original Jabez Lot,--organising genius of the House, and its first president, spoken of with awe and reverence; the first millionaire of the family and builder of its Gramercy mansion.... Suddenly, it had come to Bellair that this was the spirit of the Store, this picture was its symbol, that the slow strangulation of the souls of all concerned had begun in that white head, the planting of this bed of crooked canes. 2 One morning when Bellair was well into his third year with the printing-firm, the silence was broken on the lower floor. He was shaken that day into the real secret of the house. A certain Mr. Prentidd had been in conversation with Mr. Rawter some moments. The jovial voice of the head-salesman was without significance to those near his partition--a part of the routine. Mr. Prentidd had invented a combination ledger and voucher-file that was having some sale in America, being manufactured and distributed by Lot & Company. Mr. Rawter on a recent trip abroad had been empowered to dispose of the English rights. The result, it now appeared, did not prove satisfactory to the inventor. The voice of the latter was raised. One felt the entire building subside into a quivering hush. “I tell you, sir, I don’t trust you. I have heard in fact that the only way you could hurt your reputation here in New York or on the road would be to tell the truth.” To Bellair there was something deeply satisfying in that remark of the inventor’s--something long awaited and very good. He saw Mr. Seth arise, his chin moving in a sickly fashion, a very old pathetic Mr. Seth. He realised that Mr. Rawter had laughed--that something had been burned from that laugh. Mr. Prentidd was hurried forth, and the nullifying system began. Mr. Jabez emerged from his father’s office and turning to Broadwell at the advertising-desk, said in a tone universally penetrative: “What a pity that Mr. Prentidd drinks. There are few men finer to deal with when he is himself.” Mr. Seth, in his chair again, sitting frog-like and gasping, remarked to Mr. Sproxley across the distance: “I really must ask Mr. Prentidd to come to us earlier in the day. He’s far too worthy a man to disgrace himself in this way.”