Jim sat down in his chair before his desk and scowled at the wall. Michael Moran—everywhere that name obtruded itself—Michael Moran and Zaanan Frame. The pair of them seemed to impend over the Ashe Clothespin Company like twin thunderclouds, threatening, possessed of destructive potentialities. They had met, conferred with Morton Welliver after that gentlemen had delivered his ultimatum. Had that conference concerned him? Jim believed it had. Just what harm Zaanan Frame was potent to cause, Jim did not know; but Moran—Moran owned the little railroad, the sole outlet for Jim’s wares; he controlled the lumber company from which came Jim’s logs; his voice was preponderating in the bank to which Jim owed thirty thousand dollars. A thought came to Jim: If he could buy Moran’s logs and pay Moran a profit on them—and then himself manufacture them into clothespins and realize another profit—how great would be Moran’s profit if in his own mills he manufactured clothespins from his own logs! Jim believed that in Moran’s place he would covet the Ashe Clothespin Company. And Moran’s various activities showed him to be an acquisitive individual. But nowhere had Moran manifested an unfriendly spirit; indeed, he had been distinctly friendly in the matter of the loan. What then? In any event, Jim told himself, it would not be time wasted to keep a clear eye on the man and, if possible, to rear in advance defenses against his possible attack. Presently he got up and went into the outer office, where Grierson and his assistant were making occult entries in black and red ink on the pages of huge books. These tomes, in which were recorded the daily history of business transactions, always affected Jim with a feeling of awe, and secretly he had for Grierson and his young man a profound admiration. Anybody who could make all those entries and add all those figures, and then, a month afterward, have the slightest idea what all the agglomeration was about, was possessed of some divine spark akin to genius! “Grierson,” said Jim, “have you ever made the acquaintance of the creature known as a demand note?” “Not personally, I thank Heaven,” Grierson said, piously. “But you know its habits?” “You’re joking, Mr. Ashe.” Anything akin to humor was not to be tolerated when it touched a thing so sacred as one of the bits of business impedimenta. “I’m exceedingly serious. What can you tell me of the habits and personal peculiarities of the thing?” “A demand note,” said Grierson, with musty gravity, “is a negotiable instrument running for an indefinite period. It differs from a time note in that it may be presented and payment demanded”—he accented the word “demanded” in a manner that Jim thought vindictive—“at any time the holder chooses. Am I clear?”