Hand, a placid man, looked at the securities peacefully. “What’s the matter with your own bank?” He was referring to the Chicago Trust Company. “Can’t it take care of them for you?” “Loaded up with other things just now,” smiled Cowperwood, ingratiatingly. “Well, if I can believe all the papers say, you’re going to wreck these roads or Chicago or yourself; but I don’t live by the papers. How long would you want it for?” “Six months, perhaps. A year, if you choose.” Hand turned over the securities, eying their gold seals. “Five hundred thousand dollars’ worth of six per cent. West Chicago preferred,” he commented. “Are you earning six per cent.?” “We’re earning eight right now. You’ll live to see the day when these shares will sell at two hundred dollars and pay twelve per cent. at that.” “And you’ve quadrupled the issue of the old company? Well, Chicago’s growing. Leave them here until to-morrow or bring them back. Send over or call me, and I’ll tell you.” They talked for a little while on street-railway and corporation matters. Hand wanted to know something concerning West Chicago land—a region adjoining Ravenswood. Cowperwood gave him his best advice. The next day he ’phoned, and the stocks, so Hand informed him, were available. He would send a check over. So thus a tentative friendship began, and it lasted until the relationship between Cowperwood and Mrs. Hand was consummated and discovered. In Caroline Barrett, as she occasionally preferred to sign herself, Cowperwood encountered a woman who was as restless and fickle as himself, but not so shrewd. Socially ambitious, she was anything but socially conventional, and she did not care for Hand. Once married, she had planned to repay herself in part by a very gay existence. The affair between her and Cowperwood had begun at a dinner at the magnificent residence of Hand on the North Shore Drive overlooking the lake. Cowperwood had gone to talk over with her husband various Chicago matters. Mrs. Hand was excited by his risque reputation. A little woman in stature, with intensely white teeth, red lips which she did not hesitate to rouge on occasion, brown hair, and small brown eyes which had a gay, searching, defiant twinkle in them, she did her best to be interesting, clever, witty, and she was. “I know Frank Cowperwood by reputation, anyhow,” she exclaimed, holding out a small, white, jeweled hand, the nails of which at their juncture with the flesh were tinged with henna, and the palms of which were slightly rouged. Her eyes blazed, and her teeth gleamed. “One can scarcely read of anything else in the Chicago papers.” Cowperwood returned his most winning beam. “I’m delighted to meet you, Mrs. Hand. I have read of you, too. But I hope you don’t believe all the papers say about me.” “And if I did it wouldn’t hurt you in my estimation. To do is to be talked about in these days.”