Only in Denboro, the town adjacent to Harniss, was there a reminder that his supremacy was questioned. As the span trotted proudly along its main road he looked up to the top of the little hill behind the Methodist church and saw a rambling white house rising behind a high screen of lilac bushes and shadowed by wind-twisted silver-leaf poplars. He frowned as he looked, for in that house dwelt the two most disturbing factors in his life at present, Elisha Cook, his one-time partner, and Bob Griffin, whom he had begun to consider quite as much of a nuisance as his grandfather. The frown changed to a grim smile, however, as he reflected that one nuisance, at least, was to be abated. Esther would soon be beyond Griffin’s reach. Absence, so the proverb declared, made the heart grow fonder, but it was his firm conviction, based upon years of experience, that if the absence was long enough it was much more likely to cure a heartache than to augment it, especially when the patient was as young as his niece. That was a good suggestion of Reliance Clark’s, that of sending Esther away. He probably would have thought of it himself sooner or later, but her suggestion had been timely and had prevented what might have been dangerous delay. He was grateful to Reliance and he must stop in at the Clark cottage soon and tell her so. He had not called on her for nearly a month. His prophecy of a long wait at the lawyer’s office was, for once, proven false. When he entered the rooms in the building opposite the courthouse he found the whole battery of legal talent already there and awaiting him. Not only both members of the Ostable firm, but the two Boston consultants and a specialist in Supreme Court procedures as well. A talented and tremendously expensive outfit it was. A less self-assured man than Foster Townsend might have felt overawed by this assemblage of big brains and bigger bills. Not he, however. He acknowledged their deferential greetings with curt pleasantness and proceeded to take charge of the meeting and dominate it. It was neither a protracted session nor one too cheerful. Trial in Washington of the famous lawsuit had been finally set sometime in the late winter or early spring. He grumbled at that, but apparently no earlier date could be arranged. “Good Lord!” he growled. “If I had handled my ship the way you lawyers handle your business I never would have brought her into port more than twice in a lifetime. Well, there is this to be said, anyhow: This is the last lap. When we win this time we _win_.” There was a general and smiling nod of agreement. One of the two Boston attorneys, a white-haired and dignified aristocrat, voiced the feeling. “Yes, Captain Townsend,” he said, “if we win our case before the Supreme Court the other side can have no appeal. That will be final.” One word of this statement stirred his resentment. “_If_ we win!” he snapped. “We are going to win, aren’t we? What do you mean by ‘if’?”