“You bet!” smiled Tom, looking at the thickness of the system's history. “I have a meeting or two before luncheon, but I'll try not to let them interfere.” “Any time before three, boss,” said his son, cheerfully. His heir and successor, but, above all and everything, his son! There was no sacrifice he would not make for this boy to keep him from blighting his own career--and his father's hopes, he added, with the selfishness of real love. Knowing that Tom was safely imprisoned and could not marry at least for a few hours, he was able to concentrate his mind on his railroad's affairs. He disposed of the more urgent matters. At ten-forty he sent for McWayne. “I'm going to 777 Fifth Avenue.” “Again?” inadvertently said the private secretary. Mr. Merriwether looked at him. McWayne went on to explain: “I've had a man watching it since we found Tom called there, just before going to Boston.” “Right! I expect to be back in time to lunch with Tom; but if I should be delayed--” He paused. “Yes, sir?” “--delayed beyond one o'clock have luncheon brought from the Meridian Club and tell Tom I wish him to stay until I return. This is important.” “Yes, sir.” “I think that is all.” “If no word is received from you by--” McWayne paused. Mr. Merriwether finished. “By two o'clock, come after me. But always remember the newspapers!” “Yes, sir.” “I'll telephone before two in case I expect to stay beyond that hour.” “Very well, sir.” E. H. Merriwether put on his hat, familiar to the world through the newspaper caricaturists--and walked toward the door. Then he did what he never before had done--he repeated an order! He said to McWayne, “Look after Tom!” “Yes, sir.” Then he went to 777 Fifth Avenue to learn whether Tom was to be his pride and successor or his sorrow and dream-slayer. X E. H. Merriwether drove to the house of mystery in his motor, told the chauffeur to wait, and rang the bell. One of the over-intelligent-looking footmen opened the door. “I wish to see Mr.--whoever is master in this house.” “Yes, sir!” The footman led the way. At the door of the library he knocked twice, sharply, then, after a pause, once, and then twice again. He waited; and presently, having evidently heard some answer not audible to the financier, he opened the door and announced: “Mr. E. H. Merriwether!” Why had there been any necessity for signals? Why such cheap theatrical claptrap? To make him think things? These questions in Mr. Merriwether's mind showed that the mysterious master of the house knew the advantage of suggesting the important sense of difference. “Good morning, sir.” “Good morning,” answered E. H. Merriwether, and looked about the room. No girl! It began to irritate him. The man intensified the feeling by speaking very deliberately, as one to whom time is no object: “Will you not be seated, Mr. Merriwether?” “I am a very busy man,” began the autocrat of fifteen thousand miles of railroad.