“That's all we need,” said Porter, with a sigh of relief. “If we raise the question, Black will do the rest.” It was several minutes before the secretary came back from the telephone. “Well, did you get him?” asked Porter. “No,” said the secretary; “he isn't in Truesdale.” “Where is he?” “I couldn't find out. His stenographer wouldn't tell me.” “Wouldn't tell you, eh?” said Porter. “Just get Truesdale again; I'll talk with that young man myself.” When he began talking his voice was mild and persuasive, and Shields and McNally listened expectantly. As the minutes went by and he did not get the information he wanted, it became evident that the cocksure young man at the other end of the line was rasping through what was left of Porter's patience as an emery wheel does through soft iron. As might be expected, the process was accompanied with a shower of sparks. Porter's voice rose and swelled in volume until at last he shouted, “You don't care who I am? Why, you damned little fool--” and then he stopped, for a sharp click told him that he was cut off, even from the central office, and he was not angry enough to go on swearing at an unresponsive telephone. For a moment he stood biting his lip in a nervous effort to control himself, then he joined feebly in the laughter the other two men had raised against him. A moment later he pulled out his watch, and turning to McNally said:-- “Keep your eye on Weeks, will you? I'm going to Truesdale on the eleven-thirty to find Black. Good-by.” Katherine was not surprised when twenty minutes later her father appeared and told her his plans. That was the train she had expected they would take. “I'm going along too,” she said. “You're going to play golf this afternoon, aren't you?” “No,” replied her father, shortly, “I'm not going to play golf. I'm going to play something else.” The five-hour ride to Truesdale was for the most part a silent one. Katherine knew that her father was worried about something, and when he was worried he never liked to talk, so she asked no questions and made no attempt to draw him away from what troubled him. Only when they reached Truesdale and her father was about to help her into the cart that stood waiting she stopped long enough to kiss him and say:-- “Don't bother too much about it, dad. And don't plan any business for this evening; I want you to take me out on the river.” As she turned the cart around and started up the broad smooth street toward home she frowned, and thought, “I wish he would tell me more about things. I believe I could help.” Porter went straight to Judge Black's to continue his conversation with the stenographer, but it needed no more than a glance to convince him of the futility of trying to get any information from that source.