"No. Your uncle Walt might have it. But I'm afraid that he wouldn't feel like lending it to you. He still believes--well, you know how fathers are about their boys. He's forgotten most of Tom's bad points by now." "We'll drop him from the list. How about the bankers." "We'll have to see. I'm a little afraid there. I know you'll pardon me for saying it, Barry, but they like to have a man come to them with clean hands. Not that you haven't got them," he interjected, "but--well, you know bankers. What's the money for; running expenses?" "No. Machinery. The other mill burned down, you know--and as usual, without insurance. We have a makeshift thing set up there now--but it's nothing to what will be needed. I've got to have a good, smooth-working plant--otherwise I won't be able to live up to specifications." "You're not," and the old lawyer smiled quizzically, "going to favor your dearly beloved friend with the order, are you?" "Who?" "Worthington." "The district attorney?" "That was. Plutocrat now, and member of society, you know. He came into his father's money, just after he went out of office, and bought into the East Coast Machinery Company when it was on its last legs. His money was like new blood. They've got a good big plant. He's president," again the smile, "and I know he'd be glad to have your order." Houston continued the sarcasm. "I'd be overjoyed to give it to him. In fact, I think I'd refuse to buy any machinery if I couldn't get it from such a dear friend as Worthington was. It wasn't his fault that I wasn't sent to the penitentiary." "No, that's right, boy." Old Lawyer Mason was quietly reminiscent. "He tried his best. It seemed to me in those days he was more of a persecutor than prosecutor." "Let's forget it." Houston laughed uneasily. "Now, to go back to the bankers--" "There isn't much for us to do but to try them, one after another. I guess we might as well start now as any time." Late that afternoon they were again in the office, the features of Mason wrinkled with thought, those of Barry Houston plainly discouraged. They had failed. The refusals had been courteous, fraught with many apologies for a tight market, and effusive regrets that it would be impossible to loan money on such a gilt-edged proposition as the contract seemed to hold forth, but-- There had always been that one word, that stumbling-block against which they had run time after time, shielded and padded by courtesy, but present nevertheless. Nor were Houston and Mason unaware of the real fact which lay behind it all; that the bankers did not care to trust their money in the hands of a man who had been accused of murder and who had escaped the penalty of such a charge by a margin, which to Boston, at least, had seemed exceedingly slight. One after another, there in the office, Mason went over the list of his business acquaintances, seeking for some name that might mean magic to them. But no such inspiration came.