The manager of the C. B. and L. was being shown into the president’s office—not the little room on the upper floor, but the one with the bronze token on the door. The typewriters had been driven out for the day on some pretext of cleaning.  
As the manager entered the office, he saw a young man seated at the desk, his round head and broad back absorbed in work. His impatient eye swept the room—no one else!
 
“I—ah—I wish to see President Tetlow,” he said sharply.
 
The young man at the desk rose and turned slowly, facing him. The manager was conscious of a pair of clear, straight eyes looking into his.
 
“I asked down below for Tetlow,” he said a little less brusquely.
 
“Is it Mr. Nixon?” said John.
 
“Manager of the C. B. and L.,” said the man.
 
The slow smile on John’s face made him welcome. “President Tetlow asked me to see you, sir—”
 
“Where is he?” There was a flash of suspicion in the tone.
 
“He was called out of town. An old friend wrote, asking to see him today.”
 
“Did n’t know Sim Tetlow had any friends—any old ones,” said the manager.
 
“Will you sit down, sir?” said John. He drew forward one of the capacious chairs and the man sank into it, giving a little nip to each trouser leg, just above the knee, before he settled back comfortably, a hand resting on either arm of the big chair. He glanced about the room. “Comfortable quarters,” he said.
 
The young man was standing opposite him.
 
“President Tetlow asked me to give you any details you might wish, sir, and to represent him as far as I can.”
 
The man in the big chair surveyed him for a moment. “And who might you be?” he asked pleasantly. There was more than a bint of irony in the light words.
 
“I am John Bennett,” said the young man.
 
“Um-m. I am glad to know. And do you hold—any particular position?”
 
The young man was looking at him steadily. A slow smile had crept into his eyes. “I never thought what I am,” he said.
 
The manager smiled too—in spite of himself. “You don’t think you ’ve made a mistake in assuming that Tetlow expected you to see me?”
 
John’s eyes were quiet. “No, sir. He said I was to give you all the help I can. I know about the books—orders and correspondence and things like that,” he added after a minute, “I can perhaps tell you what you want to know.”
 
The manager was searching his memory.... What was it Harrington had reported—a new private secretary—he might make trouble? Ah, yes—“You have not been here long?” he said abruptly.
 
“Since June,” replied the young man.
 
“I’m afraid you won’t do,” said the manager, but with a little more respect in his voice. “The deals I want to talk over go back two or three years.”
 
“I was with President Tetlow then,” said John. “I came about four years ago. During the last year I ’ve been off for a while.—My mother was ill.”
 
“Mother was ill?” He whistled softly between his teeth. It might, after all, be good luck that Tetlow was away. This simple youth would reveal more in half an hour than Simeon would let out in a week.
 
He would win his confidence.
 
He settled back a little in the chair. “Tetlow a hard man to work for?” he asked casually.
 
John’s smile answered his, “I guess everybody thinks so,” he said.
 
The man nodded. “I guess so.—They say he ’s a good deal broken, though—works too hard?”
 
“He works harder than any man I ever saw,” replied John.
 
“Begins to tell on him, don’t it?” The man seemed to be watching a fly on the window.
 
“You mean—?” John’s face expressed slow interest.
 
“I mean he ’s about used up,” said the manager, flashing a look at him.
 
John shook his head, and the slow smile grew in his face. “You think he ’s used up and then you find—he is n’t. That’s the kind of man President Tetlow is.”
 
The manager gave a dry smile. “I’ve noticed that ’s the kind he is, myself.” He turned suddenly, his eyes boring into the young man. “What ’s all this bother about rates this year!” he asked. “Don’t he know the roads can’t stand it?”
 
“He thinks the country can’t stand it,” said John.
 ............