opening, and then I mean to practice. One essential for a young doctor
I have in advance. That is patients. I can get all I want on the East
Side, and I have already studied many of them. Law and medicine are what
I call real professions."

However Celia might undervalue the calling that Philip had now entered
on, he had about this time evidence of the growing appreciation of
literature by practical business men. He was surprised one day by a
brief note from Murad Ault, asking him to call at his office as soon as
convenient.

Mr. Ault received him in his private office at exactly the hour
named. Evidently Mr. Ault's affairs were prospering. His establishment
presented every appearance of a high-pressure business perfectly
organized. The outer rooms were full of industrious clerks, messengers
were constantly entering and departing in a feverish rapidity, servants
moved silently about, conducting visitors to this or that waiting-room
and answering questions, excited speculators in groups were
gesticulating and vociferating, and in the anteroom were impatient
clients awaiting their turn. In the inner chamber, however, was perfect
calm. There at his table sat the dark, impenetrable operator, whose time
was exactly apportioned, serene, saturnine, or genial, as the case might
be, listening attentively, speaking deliberately, despatching the affair
in hand without haste or the waste of a moment.

Mr. Ault arose and shook hands cordially, and then went on, without
delay for any conventional talk.

"I sent for you, Mr. Burnett, because I wanted your help, and because I
thought I might do you a good turn. You see" (with a grim smile) "I have
not forgotten Rivervale days. My wife has been reading your story. I
don't have much time for such things myself, but her constant talk about
it has given me an idea. I want to suggest to you the scene of a novel,
one that would be bound to be a good seller.

"I could guarantee a big circulation. I have just become interested in
one of the great transcontinental lines." He named the most picturesque
of them--one that he, in fact, absolutely controlled. "Well, I want a
story, yes, I guess a good love-story--a romance of reality you might
call it--strung on that line. You take the idea?"

"Why," said Philip, half amused at the conceit and yet complimented
by the recognition of his talent, "I don't know anything about
railroads--how they are run, cost of building, prospect of traffic,
e