"Do you know," Morton was saying, "it's really a great personal pleasure for me to come here, Hamilton, my boy. It reminds me of the many times when I used to sit here with your father." As he ceased speaking, he smiled benevolently on the young man opposite him. Hamilton nodded, without much appearance of graciousness. He was more than suspicious as to the sincerity of this man's kindly manner. "Yes, I know," he said. "You and he had many dealings together, I believe, didn't you, Mr. Morton?" "Oh, yes, indeed," came the ready answer; "many and many. He was a shrewd trader, was your father. It's a pity he cannot be here to know what a promising young man of business his son has become. He would be proud of you, my boy." "Thank you, Mr. Morton," Hamilton responded. "For that matter, I myself wish that Dad were here just now to help me." Again, the visitor smiled, and with a warm expansiveness that was meant to indicate a heart full of generous helpfulness. "You don't need him, my boy," he declared, unctuously. "You are dealing with an old friend." Carrington nodded in ponderous corroboration of the statement. "Of course not, of course not!" he rumbled, in a husky bass voice. Hamilton let irritation run away with discretion. He spoke with something that was very like a sneer: "I thought possibly that was just why I might need him." Morton seemed not to hear the caustic comment. At any rate, he blandly ignored it, as he turned to address Carrington. "You remember Hamilton, senior, don't you?" he asked. "Very well!" replied the gentleman of weight. His red face grew almost apoplectic, and the big body writhed in the chair. His tones were surcharged with a bitterness that he tried in vain to conceal. Morton regarded these signs of feeling with an amusement that he had no reluctance in displaying. On the contrary, he laughed aloud in his associate's face. "Well, yes," he said, still smiling, "I fancy that you ought to remember Hamilton, senior, and remember him very well, too. But, anyhow, by-gones are by-gones. You weren't alone in your misery, Carrington. He beat me, too, several times." Hamilton smiled now, but wryly. "So," he suggested whimsically, yet bitterly, "now that he's dead, you two gentlemen have decided to combine in order to beat his son. That's about it, eh?" Carrington, who was not blessed with a self-control, or an art of hypocrisy equal to that of his ally, emitted a cackling laugh of triumph. But Morton refused to accept the charge. Instead, he spoke with an admirable conviction in his voice, a hint of indignant, pained remonstrance. "Ridiculous, my dear boy--ridiculous! Just look on me as being In your father's place. No, no, Hamilton, there's room for all of us. There's a reasonable profit for all of us in the business--if only we'll be sensible about it."