“You face him--or Simeon Tetlow,” John said. “You take your choice.” He moved back from the door and the man stepped toward it. He opened it quickly and went out. The sound of his footsteps, hurrying as if pursued, died away in the outer loft. The young man stood for a moment looking thoughtfully at the disordered desk. Then he gathered up the papers and returned the ledger to its place. He locked the desk and turned off the blaze of light before he opened the windows. He stood looking down at the city in the mysterious night. Then he threw himself on the couch and slept till the morning. XVI SIMEON was tearing open his morning’s mail, fussing and growling. “There ’s another--” He tossed it to John. The young man read it without comment. It was from the farmers of Elk Horn County--the second within a month--accusing the road of keeping back cars to force up rates. “They’ve had their share,” grumbled Simeon from his mail. “More, too,” said John. He scowled his brow a little. “No. 8 brought in thirty-five empties yesterday,” he said slowly. Simeon wheeled a little, “Where to?” “Somers--most of them.” “And Somers shall have ’em,” said Simeon. He wheeled back again. “Let the Elk Horners run a road of their own. They know so much. Let their press agent get at it--Make cars out o’ wind and haul ’em with talk.” He plunged again into the mail, tearing and gritting his way through. Suddenly there was silence in the room--A long hush-- The young man looked around. The president of the road was huddled a little forward, his eyes on a letter that his shaking hands tried in vain to steady. John stepped quickly to his side. But the man did not look up. His eyes seemed glued to the few lines that covered the page. When the shaking hand dropped to the desk, he sat staring at nothing where the lines had been. John went out noiselessly and mixed an egg and placed it beside him. He knew from the look in Simeon’s face that he had not slept, and he guessed that he had had no breakfast. “You ’d better take this, sir,” he said quietly. Simeon’s hand groped a little toward it and drew back. “I tell you I can’t see him,” he said sharply. “Who is it, sir?” “Nixon--” He touched the paper beside him. “He wants to talk over rates. I tell you I can’t see him--I can’t!” It was almost a cry. The young man took up the letter. “Perhaps you won’t need to, sir.” His slow eyes were on the words. “It’s only the rates,” he said thoughtfully.