But now, with his new idea, this coal could be used. There was a railroad spur very near the property, Jimmy remembered. It would be an ideal place for a factory. It was the only thing he needed to hook his plan together. Now he could talk convincingly to any big man. Jimmy, with the optimism of youth, had a world of confidence in himself, and he saw no great obstacles in the way of what he wanted to do. A few weeks or months at the most in New York, and he would be back, with a big factory going up, and all the thousand details of a great enterprise under way. And _he_ would have a part in it all—he would have been its originator. Then, when he was rich and famous, he and Anne would be married. He slipped his arm again about the girl’s shoulders and looked down into her sympathetic, eager little face. “I love you, Anne,” he said. “I love you, too, Jimmy,” she answered simply. He waited a moment. “Yes, but—but this is different, Anne. We’ve always loved each other. But I’m a man now. And you’re a woman. Don’t you see that’s different?” The girl met his glance squarely, and a little wave of color mounted to her cheeks; but she did not answer. “I want to marry you, Anne. Some day—maybe soon—when I’ve put this idea over—when I amount to something. I want you for my wife—because—because I love you so much, and you love me. Will you, Anne—will you?” The girl’s arms went up about his neck; her upturned face was tender with love; her eyes, glistening with tears of happiness, met his without a trace of coquetry. “Yes, Jimmy, I will,” she whispered. * * * * * The New York offices of the Wentworth Glass Company occupied an entire floor of a large office-building on Broadway near Wall Street. At ten o’clock on the Tuesday morning following his momentous walk with Anne to the burning mines and the birth of his big idea, Jimmy entered the Wentworth Company’s offices. He passed through a door marked “Information,” and found himself in a little enclosure facing a low wooden railing and a girl at a telephone switchboard. Behind her he could see a hundred other girls at typewriters, and the steady click of their machines filled the air with a low, confused hum. It seemed to Jimmy that all the business in the world was being transacted in that room at that moment. For an instant he stood appalled. Then he walked up to the switchboard and addressed the girl. “I want to see Mr. Wentworth—Mr. Robert G. Wentworth,” he said. “He’s the president, isn’t he?” The girl stared; then she smiled. Jimmy smiled, too—a frank, friendly smile, so ingenuous that it probably surprised the girl even more than his request. “Have you got an appointment with Mr. Wentworth?” Jimmy smiled again. “No,” he admitted. “But I’ve something to say to him—something important, that he’ll be glad to hear.” “Whom do you represent?” If he had only known it, Jimmy was passing through a very critical moment in his business career.