"This is the night," he explained. "You will find him alone in his office. I will be waiting to hear from you at----"--he quoted Mrs. Hardy's telephone number. Then he drove his car to the Hardy home, exchanged a few words with Irene, and sat down to a hand of cribbage with her mother. Poring over his correspondence, Dave tried to abstract his mind from the tumultuous doings of these last days. Office organization had been paralyzed; stenographers and clerks were incapable with excitement. It was as though some great excursion had been announced; something wonderful and novel, which divorced the interest from the dull routine of business. And Dave, with his ear cocked for the cry of the latest extra, spent the evening hours in a valiant effort at concentration. Suddenly he heard a knock at the door; not a business man's knock; not an office girl's knock; a hesitating, timid, apologetic knock. "Come in," he called. No one entered, but presently he heard the knock again. He arose and walked to the door. Outside stood a young woman. She looked up shyly, her face half concealed beneath a broad hat. "If you please," she said, "excuse me, but--you are Mr. Elden, aren't you?" "Yes; can I help you in any way?" The woman tittered a moment, but resumed soberly, "You will wonder at me coming to you, but I'm from the country. Did you think that?" "I suspected it," said Dave, with a smile. "You knocked----" He paused. "Yes?" "Like a country girl," he said, boldly. She tittered again. "Well, I'm lost," she confessed. "I got off the train a short time ago. My aunt was to meet me, but there are such crowds in the street--I must have missed her. And I saw your name on the window, and I had heard of you. So I just thought I'd ask--if you wouldn't mind--showing me to this address." She fumbled in her pocket, and Dave invited her into the office. There she produced a torn piece of paper with an address. "Why, that's just a few blocks," said Dave. "I'll walk around with you." He turned for his hat, but at that moment there was another timid knock on the door. He opened it. A boy of eight or ten years stood outside. "Can I come in?" the lad ventured. "Why, of course you can. What is it, son?" "Are you Mr. Elden?" "Yes." The lad looked shyly about the office. It was evident he was impressed with its magnificence. Suddenly he pulled off his hat, disclosing a shock of brown hair. "Are you Mr. Elden that sells lots?" "Yes. Or, rather, I _did_ sell lots, but not many of late. Were you thinking of buying a few lots?" "Did you sell lots to my father?" "Well, if I knew your father's name perhaps I could tell you. Who is your father?" "He's Mr. Merton. I'm his son. And he said to me, before he got so bad, he said, 'There's just one honest man in this city, and that's Mr. Elden.' Is that you, Mr. Elden?" "Well, I hope it is, but I won't claim such a distinction. I remember your father very well. Did he send you to me?"