“No, indeed. There is nothing the matter--really. I was thinking I'd like to do a man's work. I guess you'd better let me go with you on your next tour of inspection.” The face of the czar of the Southwestern & Pacific lighted up. “Will you?” he said, with an eagerness that made his voice almost tremble. “Yes.” And that evening E. H. Merriwether delivered a long lecture on railroad strategy and railroad financing to his son, which brought them very close to each other. On the next day, however, all thoughts of being his great father's successor were subordinated to the feeling that, if Mr. Thomas Thome Merriwether had to be the successor of a railroad man, he should himself take steps to provide his own successors. Feeling that he was his father's son made him think of paternity. And that made him think of the message he had delivered in the dark and of the message the man had said would some day come to Tom Merriwether. He drew a deep breath and thought he smelled sweet peas. And that somehow made him think of the girl he should marry. Try as he might, he could not quite see her face. He thought he kissed her, and he inhaled the fragrance of sweet peas. Her complexion was beautiful. No more! On the afternoon of the third day Tom decided that he was wasting too much time in thinking of the possible meaning of his queer experience, and also that it was of little use trying not to think about it. Therefore he would try to put an end to the perplexity. He went to 777 Fifth Avenue and rang the bell. A footman opened the door and stared at him icily. Tom perceived he was not one of the men whose faces looked too intelligent for footmen. “I wish to see Mr.--er--your master.” “Does he expect you, sir?” The tone was not as respectful as footmen in Fifth Avenue houses used in speaking to the heir of the Merriwether millions. “No; but he knows me.” “Who knows you, sir?” “Your master.” “Could you tell me his name, sir?” “No; but I can tell you mine.” “He's not at home, sir.” “I'm Mr. Merriwether. Say I wish to speak to him a moment.” “I'm sorry, sir. He's not in.” The footman was so unimpressed by the name of Merriwether that Tom experienced a new sensation, one which made him less sure of his own powers. He took out a card and a bank-note and held them out toward the man. “I am anxious to see him.” “Im sorry. I can't take it, sir,” said the footman, with such melancholy sincerity that Tom smiled at the torture of the cockney soul. Then he ceased to smile. The master of this mysterious house had compelled even the footmen to obey him! “But if you will call again in an hour, sir, I think perhaps, sir--” “Thank you. Take it anyhow.” He again held out the bank-note. The man saw it was for twenty dollars, and almost turned green. “I--I d-daresent, sir!” he whimpered, and closed his eyes with the expression of an anchoret resolved not to see the beautiful temptress.