“Make it from the directors then--for services rendered.” He laughed--a little bitterly. “Yes, sir--from the directors--for services rendered.” John wrote the letter and sent it. But he knew that the cheque that went with it was not recorded on the books of the “R. and Q.” Road. XVII The manager of the C. B. and L. was being shown into the president’s office--not the little room on the upper floor, but the one with the bronze token on the door. The typewriters had been driven out for the day on some pretext of cleaning. As the manager entered the office, he saw a young man seated at the desk, his round head and broad back absorbed in work. His impatient eye swept the room--no one else! “I--ah--I wish to see President Tetlow,” he said sharply. The young man at the desk rose and turned slowly, facing him. The manager was conscious of a pair of clear, straight eyes looking into his. “I asked down below for Tetlow,” he said a little less brusquely. “Is it Mr. Nixon?” said John. “Manager of the C. B. and L.,” said the man. The slow smile on John’s face made him welcome. “President Tetlow asked me to see you, sir--” “Where is he?” There was a flash of suspicion in the tone. “He was called out of town. An old friend wrote, asking to see him today.” “Did n’t know Sim Tetlow had any friends--any old ones,” said the manager. “Will you sit down, sir?” said John. He drew forward one of the capacious chairs and the man sank into it, giving a little nip to each trouser leg, just above the knee, before he settled back comfortably, a hand resting on either arm of the big chair. He glanced about the room. “Comfortable quarters,” he said. The young man was standing opposite him. “President Tetlow asked me to give you any details you might wish, sir, and to represent him as far as I can.” The man in the big chair surveyed him for a moment. “And who might _you_ be?” he asked pleasantly. There was more than a bint of irony in the light words. “I am John Bennett,” said the young man. “Um-m. I am glad to know. And do you hold--any particular position?” The young man was looking at him steadily. A slow smile had crept into his eyes. “I never thought _what_ I am,” he said. The manager smiled too--in spite of himself. “You don’t think you ’ve made a mistake in assuming that Tetlow expected you to see me?” John’s eyes were quiet. “No, sir. He said I was to give you all the help I can. I know about the books--orders and correspondence and things like that,” he added after a minute, “I can perhaps tell you what you want to know.” The manager was searching his memory.... What was it Harrington had reported--a new private secretary--he might make trouble? Ah, yes--“You have not been here long?” he said abruptly. “Since June,” replied the young man. “I’m afraid you won’t do,” said the manager, but with a little more respect in his voice. “The deals I want to talk over go back two or three years.”