They turned to the left and paused outside another door marked "Entrance." Herbert thought he'd better remain in the corridor--the President might smell a rat; so McAllister decided to enter alone. In an adjoining suite he could see some men testing a fire-escape consisting of a long bulging canvas tube, which reached from the window in the direction of the street below. Someone was preparing to make a descent. McAllister wished he could stop and see the fellow slide through; but business was business, and he opened the door. Inside he found himself in a large, handsome office. Three gum-chewing boys idled at desks in front of a brass railing, behind which several typewriters rattled continuously. On learning that McAllister desired to see the President, one of the boys penetrated an inner office, and presently beckoned our friend into another room hung with large maps and photographs and furnished with a mahogany table, around which were ranged a dozen vacant but impressive chairs. In the room beyond, evidently the holy of holies, he could see an elderly man at a roll-top desk smoking a large cigar. McAllister was beginning to lose his nerve; everything seemed so methodical and everybody so busy. Telephones rang incessantly; buzzers whirred; the machines clacked; and the man inside smoked on serenely, unperturbed, a wonderful example of the superiority of mind over matter. Who was he? McAllister began to fear that he was going to make an ass of himself. Then the magnate slowly raised his eyes; retreat became no longer possible. With a start, McAllister found himself face to face with the man with the bullet-hole in his forehead. The latter bowed slightly. "I am President Van Vorst," he announced in a dignified manner. McAllister hastily tried to assume the expression and manner of a yokel. "Er--er--" he stammered; "you see, the fact is, I want to sell some stock." The Colonel eyed him sternly. "Stock? What stock?" "In the Golden Touch." The President slightly elevated his eyebrows. "Stock in The Golden Touch? How much have you got?" "About a thousand shares." "Nonsense!" remarked the Colonel. "No, it isn't," replied McAllister. "I have, really. What'll you pay for it?" "Five dollars a share." "No, no," said McAllister, edging nervously toward the door. "I think it's worth more than that." "Come back here," muttered the other, getting up from his chair and scowling. "What do you know about the value of The Golden Touch, I should like to know?" "Perhaps I know more than you think," answered McAllister, with an inane imitation of airy nonchalance. "See here," said the Colonel excitedly, "is this on the level? Can you deliver a thousand?" "Certainly." The President sank back in his chair. "Then you have located Murphy's stock!" he exclaimed. "You've beaten us! That cursed certificate was issued just before--" He paused, and looked sharply toward McAllister.