lower vein, and it’s fine coking coal, which they mine economically through the old workings. The Colonel is only a figurehead now in the new corporation--his name looks good when they want anything done at Harrisburg--see? And the real powers in the company can’t hear Gregory--don’t know anything about the Colonel’s promises--say the agreement was made without authority--and there you are.” Walsh breathed heavily and lighted a fresh cigar. “If it was a personal agreement, of course it’s no good if the Colonel won’t see it! But we don’t expect the Colonel to do that sort of thing--the soul of honour and all that!” “The soul of punk and piffle!” grunted Walsh. “Mr. Wingfield, it’s worth remembering that we’re all human beings--poor, damned, stumbling sinners, even you and me. The Colonel’s a good man; he means well, but he hasn’t any more influence with that corporation than the waiter who pours soup in this club. In all these corporations Craighill’s in, they don’t pay any attention to him except when they’ve got something that he can do, like appearing before investigating committees and that sort of thing. He hardly remembers that he ever knew Gregory, and his lawyer has interpreted that agreement to mean coal mined on the property as it existed when it was taken over--which doesn’t touch the lower vein. Do you get the idea?” “Didn’t the Colonel know about the lower vein? And didn’t Gregory know?” “I doubt if Gregory knew--he dates back to the time when anybody with a pick and coal scuttle could go into bituminous around here. He’d been a preacher or a school-teacher or something like that, and really didn’t know mine-run from Easter eggs.” “So it’s not a business proposition strictly, but a matter of personal morals--which is far more interesting. Thank you for the information. The Colonel interests me deeply; he presents rare psychological problems. This incident confirms one of my impressions concerning him--that he’s not an acute person, and that he might even go far wrong--through his vanity and conceit--and be utterly unconscious of it.” “Um.” “And the girl?” “Oh, the girl’s down here studying art. Mrs. Blair seems to have taken her up. Just how Mrs. Craighill got hold of her I don’t know, but it isn’t important. I could see it in Mrs. Craighill’s eye that she was glad the girl was there. The girl and her grandfather were down to see me the other day about the old man’s claim, but I couldn’t give him any encouragement. An old chump like that oughtn’t to have any. I don’t pose as a philanthropist, Mr. Wingfield, and it wouldn’t be loyal to the Colonel, considering the long years I spent with him, to give comfort to his enemies.” Walsh lifted his head virtuously and lost himself in a prodigious cloud of smoke. Wingfield, watching for a reappearance of the heavy, inscrutable face, could have sworn that he saw a smile curl the old man’s thin lips.