"Yes," he grudgingly confessed. "In fact, it's been done," and there was a certain grim satisfaction at the corners of his mouth which his daughter could not interpret, as he thought back over the long list of absorptions which had made old Bill Westlake the power that he was. "But--but, father," and she hesitated a long time. "Yes," he encouraged her. "Even if you won't let him have enough stock to obtain control, if some one other person should own enough of the stock, couldn't they put their stock with his and let him do just about as he liked?" "Oh, yes," agreed Mr. Westlake without any twirling of his thumbs at all; "that's been done, too." "Would this twenty-five thousand dollars' worth of stock that you're buying, pop, if it were added to what you men are willing to let Mr. Turner have, give him control?" Again Mr. Westlake turned his speculative gray eyes upon his daughter and gave her a long, careful scrutiny, which she received with downcast lashes. "No," he replied. "How much would?" "Well, fifty thousand would do it." "Say, pop--" "Yes." Another long interval. "I wish you'd buy fifty thousand for me in place of twenty-five." "Humph," grunted Mr. Westlake, and after one sharp glance at her he looked down at his big fat thumbs and twirled them for a long, long time. "Well," said he, "Sam Turner is a fine young man. I've known him in a business way for five or six years, and I never saw a flaw in him of any sort. All right. You give Billy your sugar stock and I'll buy you this fifty thousand." Miss Westlake reached over and kissed her father impulsively. "Thanks, pop," she said. "Now there's another thing I want you to do." "What, more?" he demanded. "Yes, more," and this time the color deepened in her cheeks. "I want you to hunt up Mr. Turner and tell him that you're going to take that much." Mr. Westlake with a smile reached up and pinched his daughter's cheek. "Very well, Hallie, I'll do it," said he. She patted him affectionately on the bald spot. "Good for you," she said. "Be sure you see him this morning, though, and before half-past nine." "You're particular about that, eh?" "Yes, it's rather important," she admitted, and blushed furiously. Westlake patted his daughter on the shoulder. "Hallie," said He, "if Billy only had your common-sense business instinct, I wouldn't ask for anything else in this world; but Billy is a saphead." Mr. Westlake, thinking that he understood the matter very thoroughly, though in reality overunderstanding it--nice word, that--took it upon himself with considerable seriousness to hunt up Sam Turner; but it was fully nine-thirty before he found that energetic young man. Sam was just going down the driveway in a neat little trap behind a team of spirited grays. "Wait a minute, Sam, wait a minute," hailed Westlake, puffing laboriously across the closely cropped lawn.