Bellair wondered that the point of Mr. Prentidd’s remark seemed entirely lost. As for himself he counted it worthy of regard. The episode was but begun. The inventor returned immediately, just as Mr. Rawter was stepping out. The two men met in the main corridor. It appeared that Mr. Prentidd repeated a certain question, for the head-salesman replied, the roundness of the joviality gone from his voice: “I tell you, Mr. Prentidd, the situation has changed. I could not dispose of the English order at a better figure to save my soul. I extracted every cent for you and for the House.” “I don’t believe you. Other matters of the same kind do better. If you speak the truth, you made a very bad bargain for yourself and what is more important, for me----” The least like an inventor imaginable, a most physical person, Mr. Prentidd, with a fiery sense of his own rights and a manner as soft as his voice was penetrating. He turned a leisurely look of scorn at Mr. Rawter, half-stare and half-smile, then appeared to perceive the elder Mr. Wetherbee for the first time. The old man arose. Bellair felt the agony of expectancy far back among the stock-piles. The inventor shot straight at the vice-president: “You’re an old man. I’ll trust your word. You’re an old man and a Quaker--yes, I’ll take your word. Your man, Rawter, says he could get only seven and one-half cents’ royalty for me on my Nubian file from England. I say it’s only half what I should get. Is it true--remember you’re old. Is it true?” Prentidd’s face had power in it, exasperation and the remains of a laugh. It appeared that he was content to take a gambler’s chance and close the ugly business on Mr. Seth’s word. The old man’s eye roved. He looked sick and shaken. He found the eyes of his son Eben which were full of terror and pity and hope. “Answer me. Could Lot & Company get no more than fifteen cents altogether on the English patents?” Mr. Wetherbee’s lips moved. “That’s all we could get, Mr. Prentidd. I’m sorry,” he said. For an instant Mr. Prentidd stood there. It was evident that he had expected a different answer. True to his promise to take the old man’s word, however, he turned on his heel and walked out. On the high sloping desk before Bellair’s eyes, a big ledger lay open. He had turned during the talk to the transaction of Prentidd--Lot & Company. The English disposal had been arranged for at twenty-five cents the file, royalty. Apparently Mr. Prentidd had agreed upon an even split, but Lot & Company had taken seventeen and the fraction.