Between Galt and the president of the Great Midwestern there was a strange relationship. Harbinger had said it was not one of friendship. Perhaps not. Yet it would be difficult to find any other name for it. Their association was constant. Galt did all of Valentine’s private Stock Exchange business, as Harbinger said. What Harbinger did not know was that they were engaged in joint speculations under Galt’s advice and direction. All of this, of course, could be without personal liking on either side. Galt was an excellent broker and an adroit speculator. Valentine never spoke of him without a kind of awe and a certain unease of manner. Galt’s references to Valentine were oblique, sometimes irreverent to the verge of disrespect, but that was Galt. It did not imply dislike. On the president’s return from Chicago I mentioned the fact of having refused to give Galt the earnings. “Quite right,” he said. “I ought to have told you about Mr. Galt.” “Is it all right to give him anything he wants?” I asked, remembering what Harbinger had said and wishing to test it for myself. He did not answer at once, nor directly. After walking about for several minutes he said: “Mr. Galt is becoming a large stockholder in the Great Midwestern Railroad. Why, I don’t know. I cannot follow his process of thought. Our stock is very low. I don’t know when if ever we shall be able to pay dividends on it again. But I cannot keep him from buying it. He is obstinate in his opinions.” “Is his judgment good in such matters?” I asked. “It isn’t judgment,” he said slowly. “It isn’t anything you can touch by reason. I suppose it is intuition.” “Do his intuitions prove in the sequel?” He grew more restless and then stood for a long time gazing out of the window. “It’s queer,” he said, speaking to himself. “He has extraordinary foresight. I wish I could see with him now. If he is right then everybody else is wrong. No, he cannot be right ... he cannot be. Conditions are too plain.” “He doesn’t see conditions as they are?” I said. “As they are?” he repeated, starting, and then staring at me out of focus with recollected astonishment. “He doesn’t see them at all. They don’t exist. What he sees is ... is.... Well, well, no matter,” he said, letting down suddenly and returning to his desk with a large gesture of sweeping something behind him.