The man before whom he stood was of an altogether different type. His features were strong and regular, his complexion slightly bronzed, as though from exposure to the sun and wind. He had closely-cropped black hair, keen gray eyes, and a determined chin. He sat before a table on which were all the modern appurtenances of a business man in close touch with passing events. A telephone was at his elbow, his secretary was busy at a smaller table in the corner of the room, a typist was waiting respectfully in the background. His confidential clerk was leaning over his chair, notebook in hand, receiving in a few terse sentences instructions for the morrow's operations. Stirling Deane, although he was barely forty years old, was at the head of a great mining corporation. He had been the one man selected for the position when the most important and far-reaching amalgamation of recent days had taken place. And this although he came of a family whose devotion to business had always been blended with a singular aptitude for and preëminence in sports. Deane himself, until the last few years, had played cricket for his county, had hunted two days a week, and had by no means shown that whole-hearted passion for money-making which was rife enough in the circles amid which he moved. He wound up his instructions, and dismissed his clerk with a few curt and final words. Then he turned round in his chair and faced his visitor. "I am sorry to have kept you, Rowan," he said. "This is always rather a busy day in the city, and a busy time." His visitor, who had been waiting for an hour in an ante-room, and was then esteemed fortunate to be accorded an interview, looked around him with a little smile. "So you've prospered, Deane," he said. "Naturally," the other answered. "I always meant to. And you, Rowan?" The visitor shook his head. "I have tried many things," he said; "all failures,--disposition or luck, I suppose. What is it, I wonder, that keeps some men down while others climb?" Deane shrugged his shoulders. "Disposition," he said, "is only an appendage, and luck doesn't exist. In nine cases out of ten, if a man's will is strong enough, he climbs." Rowan nodded gloomily. "Perhaps that's it," he assented. "I never had any will, or if I had, it didn't seem worth while to use it." "Take a seat," said Deane. "You don't look fit to stand. What can I do for you? We shall be interrupted in a few moments." "I want something to do," Rowan said. "I can't give it to you," answered Deane, firmly but not unkindly. "You don't beat about the bush," the other declared, with a hard little laugh. "Why should I?" Deane asked. "It would only waste our time, and be, after all, a mistaken kindness. There isn't a man about my place who hasn't grown up under my own personal observation. It's an important business this, Rowan. I daren't risk a single weak link. To be frank with you,--and you see I am being frank,--I'd sooner pay your salary than have you here."