ough sleep-heavy eyes, saw Carr hold a glass of port wine,
glowing like a ruby, up between himself and the light and sip it slowly.
Carr was partial to that wine. Wonder if the old chap didn't get
properly lit up sometimes? He looked as if--well, as if he enjoyed easy
living--easy drinking. There was brandy and soda and a bottle of Scotch
on the sideboard too.--And Sophie _was_ beautiful. All the little
feminine artifices of civilization accentuated the charm that had been
potent enough in the woods. Silk instead of gingham. Dainty shoes
instead of buckskin moccasins.--What an Aladdin's lamp money was,
anyway. Funny that they had settled upon Vancouver for a home. Tommy was
there too. Of course. Should a fellow stick to his hunch? Vancouver
might give birth to an opportunity. Profitable undertakings.--At any
rate he would see her now and then. But would he--working? Did he want
to? Would a cat continue to stare at a king if the king's crown rather
dazzled the cat's eyes? Suppose--just suppose--

Thompson sat up in bed with a start. It seemed to him that he had just
lain down, that the train of his thought was still racing. But it was
broad day, a dull morning, gloomy with that high fog which in spring
often rides over the city and the bay till near noon.

He stretched his arms, yawning. All at once he recollected that he had
something to do, a call to make upon Mr. John P. Henderson at ten
o'clock. Groya Motors--he wondered what significance that held. At any
rate he proposed to see.

It lacked just forty minutes of the appointed time. Thompson bounced out
of bed. Within twenty minutes he had swallowed a cup of coffee at a
near-by lunch counter and was on his way up Van Ness.

The corner of Van Ness and Potter revealed a six-story concrete
building, its plate-glass frontage upon the sidewalk displaying three or
four beautifully finished automobiles upon a polished oak floor. The
sign across the front bore the heraldry of the card. He walked in,
accosted the first man he saw, and was waved to a flight of stairs
reaching a mezzanine floor. Gaining that he discovered in a short
corridor a door bearing upon its name-plate the legend:

Mr. John P. Henderson.

Private.

Thompson looked at his watch. It lacked but two minutes of ten. He
knocked, and a voice bade him enter. He found himself face to face with
the master of the gray car. Mr. John P. Henderson looked more imposing
behind a mahogany desk than he did on the