"Not very much," said Wheaton guardedly. "I guess you don't and I guess nobody does, worse luck! You know how morbidly secretive he is, and how he shies off from publicity,--I suppose you do," he went on a little grimly. He did not like Wheaton particularly. "Well, he has some Traction stock,--the annual meeting is held to-morrow and he's got to be represented." "He never told me of it," said Wheaton, truthfully. "His shares are probably in his inside pocket, or hid under the bed at home; but we've got to get them if he has any, and get them quick. If he has his wits he'll probably try and send word to me. I suppose I couldn't see him if I went up." "Miss Porter telephoned me to come,--on some business matter, she said, and no doubt that's what it is." "Then I won't go just now, but I'll see you here as soon as you get down town. I'll be at my office right after dinner." He paused, deliberating. Fenton was a careful man, who rose to emergencies. "I'll come directly back here," said Wheaton. "No doubt the papers you want are in one of Mr. Porter's private boxes." "Can you get into it to-night?" "Yes; it's in the vault where we keep the account books, and there's no time lock." CHAPTER XXV JAMES WHEATON DECLINES AN OFFER Margrave hung up the receiver of his desk telephone with a slam, and rang a bell for the office boy. "Call the Clarkson National, and tell Mr. Wheaton to come over,--right away." It was late in the afternoon. Wheaton had been unusually busy with routine work and the directors had taken an hour of his time. He had turned away from Fenton to answer Margrave's message, and went toward the Transcontinental office with a feeling of foreboding. He remembered the place very well; it had hardly changed since the days of his own brief service there. As he crossed the threshold of the private office, the sight of Margrave's fat bulk squeezed into a chair that was too small for him, impressed him unpleasantly; he had come with mixed feelings, not knowing whether his friendly relations with the railroader were to be further emphasized, or whether Margrave was about to make some demand of him. His doubts were quickly dispelled by Margrave, who turned around fiercely as the door closed. "Sit down, Wheaton," he said, indicating a chair by his desk. His face was very red and his stubby mustache seemed stiffer and more wire-like than ever. He was breathing in the difficult choked manner of fat men in their rage. "Now, I want you to tell me something; I want you to answer up fair and square. I've got to come right down to brass tacks with you and I want you to tell me the God's truth. How much Traction has Billy Porter got?" Wheaton grew white, and the lids closed over his eyes sleepily. "Come out with it," puffed Margrave. "If you've been making a fool of me I want to know it." "I don't know what right you've got to ask me such a question," Wheaton answered coldly.