der way. I must trust
its completion to younger and stronger hands than mine. I intend to
rest, to devote myself to my home, more directly to such philanthropic
and educational work as God has committed to my hands."

The Westerner gave him look for look, his eyes burning to get over the
impasse of the expressionless mask no man had ever penetrated. He began
to see why nobody had ever understood Harley. He knew there would be no
rest for that consuming energy this side of the grave. Yet the man
talked as if he believed his own glib lies.

"Consolidated is the watchword of the age; it means elimination of
ruinous competition, and consequent harmony and reduced expense in
management. Mr. Ridgway, may I count you with us? Together we should go
far. Do you say peace or war?"

The younger man rose, leaning forward with his strong, sinewy hands
gripping the table. His face was pale with the repression of a rage
that had been growing intense. "I say war, and without quarter. I don't
believe you can beat me. I defy you to the test. And if you
should--even then I had rather go down fighting you than win at your
side."

Simon Harley had counted acceptance a foregone conclusion, but he never
winked a lash at the ringing challenge of his opponent. He met his
defiance with an eye cold and steady as jade.

"As you please, Mr. Ridgway. I wash my hands of your ruin, and when you
are nothing but a broken gambler, you will remember that I offered you
the greatest chance that ever came to a man of your age. You are one of
those men, I see, that would rather be first in hell than second in
heaven. So be it." He rose and buttoned his overcoat.

"Say, rather, that I choose to go to hell my own master and not as the
slave of Simon Harley," retorted the Westerner bitterly.

Ridgway's eyes blazed, but those of the New Yorker were cool and fishy.

"There is no occasion for dramatics," he said, the cruel, passionless
smile at his thin lips. "I make you a business proposition and you
decline it. That is all. I wish you good day."

The other strode past him and flung the door open. He had never before
known such a passion of hatred as raged within him. Throughout his life
Simon Harley had left in his wake wreckage and despair. He was the
best-hated man of his time, execrated by the working classes, despised
by the country at large, and distrusted by his fellow exploiters. Yet,
as a business opponent, Ridgway had always taken him impersona