"I certainly do not believe in the centralisation of such vast wealth in one man's purse, but, the rules of the game being as they are, I can't say that I have much sympathy with those persons who call a man a thief merely because he has the genius to accumulate it!" "And neither do I, friend," said the Mayor soothingly. "If there's any gent I don't press agin my bosom, it's a sorehead. But I know about Chambers!--you set that down!" He paused for a moment, then asked meditatively: "I suppose Miss Chambers don't believe any o' them stories?" "She believes the stories spring either from jealousy, or vindictiveness, or from a totally mistaken impression of her father." "I thought she must look at him about that way." The Mayor nodded thoughtfully. "D'you know, I've thought more'n once about her and her father. She's about as fine as they're turned out--that's the way I size her up. Conscience to burn. Mebbe some o' these days she'll find out just what her old man's really like. Well, when she finds out, what's she goin' to do? That's what I've wondered at. Somethin' may happen--but I don't know. Blood's mighty thick, and when it's thickened with money--well, sir, it certainly does hold people mighty close together!" David quickly shifted the conversation back to business. They were all agreed that success seemed a certainty. Rogers turned his large bright eyes from one to the other. "There's only one danger of failure I can see." "And that?" said David. "If they find out I'm Red Thorpe." "How'll they learn you're Red Thorpe?" The Mayor dismissed the matter with a wave of a great hand. "No danger at all." "I suppose not. But I've been fearing this for ten years, and now that my work is coming to its climax I can't help fearing it more than ever." "Two more weeks and you'll be on your way to Colorado," the Mayor assured him. "By-the-bye, have you had an answer yet from that sanitarium at Colorado Springs?" "Yes. This morning. I want to show it to you; it's in the other room." Rogers walked over the strip of carpet through the open door into the living room. The next instant David and the Mayor heard his strained voice demand: "What're you doing here?" They both hurried to the door. On Rogers's couch lay Jimmie Morgan. The half-swept floor, the broom leaning against a chair, and the breath of the bottle, combined to tell the story of Morgan's presence. "What're you doing here?" Rogers demanded, his thin fingers clutching the old man's shoulder. Morgan rose blinking to his elbows, then slipped to his feet. "Sweepin'," he said with a grin. "Why weren't you doing it then?" "I must 'a' had failure o' the heart and just keeled over," explained Morgan, still grinning amiably. The Mayor sniffed the air. "Yes, smells exactly like heart failure." "Yes, it was my heart," said old Jimmie, more firmly, and he began to sweep with unsteady energy.