Caleb Conover was finishing a solitary breakfast in his room; the morning after his return from the Capital. He had eaten heartily, even as he had slept well; and was neither outwardly nor inwardly the worse for his “wakeful day” at State House and engine-throttle. A slightly puffed underlip and a double set of discolored knuckles were his only mementoes of the attack upon Blacarda. In honor of his victories, the Fighter had allowed himself an extra half-hour’s sleep and a steak for breakfast. It was nine o’clock so he pushed back his chair from the deal table that had held his morning meal. He lighted a heavy cigar, rose, stretched himself in the lazy luxury of perfect strength, and prepared to go to the day’s work. Conover, in the early years, when he was fighting tooth and nail to lift the moribund C. G. & X. Railroad to a paying basis, had had a room and bath fitted up for his personal use, directly to the rear of his private office in the station. Here he had lived, his entire life centering about his toil. Here he still dwelt, now that success was his. The man whose wealth had already passed the million mark and was rocketing toward far higher figures, was simpler in his personal tastes and surroundings than was the poorest brakeman on his road. An iron cot bed, a painted pine bureau with flawed mirror, an air-tight stove, a shelf with fourteen books, the deal table and two chairs formed the sum of his living-room furniture. One of the station scrubwomen kept the place in order. The few personal guests he had were received in the private office outside. One such visitor, Conover had been informed ten minutes earlier, was even now awaiting him there. At least Caleb, reading the card, “Mr. John Hawarden, Jr.,” judged the caller to have come on a personal matter of some sort rather than on railroad business. With mild curiosity as to what could have brought the son of Desirée’s chaperone to see him, Conover lounged in leisurely fashion to the office. On his appearance, a tall, slender youth rose and greeted him with nervous cordiality. “Sit down,” grunted Conover, scowling under the vigorous grip of the lad’s hand. “What can I do for you?” The caller twisted his neck somewhat uneasily in its amazing height of collar, fought back a gulp and fell to drawing his tan gloves through his fingers. Caleb noted that the hands were slim, the fingers long and tapering. He also noted that the boy, despite his almost effeminate delicacy of contour and feature, was square of jaw and steady of eye. The Fighter was, from these signs of the Brotherhood of Strength, amused rather than irritated at the other’s nervousness. He even felt a vague desire to set Hawarden at his ease. “First time you an’ me have come together, ain’t it?” he asked, less gruffly. “Yes, sir,” answered Hawarden pleasantly. “I know you by sight,--and of course by reputation,--but it’s hardly likely you’d have noticed _me_. My parents have had the pleasure of meeting you.”