nodded briskly. "I like his
taking flowers to his mother."

"He _said_ it was to his mother," suggested the secretary gloomily.

"Well, he picked the flowers, anyway," laughed Mr. Thorndike. "He didn't
pick our pockets. And he had the run of the house in those days. As far
as we know," he dictated, "he was satisfactory. Don't say more than
that."

The secretary scribbled a mark with his pencil. "And the landscape man?"

"Tell him," commanded Thorndike, "I want a wood road, suitable to a
farm; and to let the trees grow where God planted them."

As his car slid downtown on Tuesday morning the mind of Arnold
Thorndike was occupied with such details of daily routine as the
purchase of a railroad, the Japanese loan, the new wing to his art
gallery, and an attack that morning, in his own newspaper, upon his pet
trust. But his busy mind was not too occupied to return the salutes of
the traffic policemen who cleared the way for him. Or, by some genius of
memory, to recall the fact that it was on this morning young Spear was
to be sentenced for theft. It was a charming morning. The spring was at
full tide, and the air was sweet and clean. Mr. Thorndike considered
whimsically that to send a man to jail with the memory of such a morning
clinging to him was adding a year to his sentence. He regretted he had
not given the probation officer a stronger letter. He remembered the
young man now, and favorably. A shy, silent youth, deft in work, and at
other times conscious and embarrassed. But that, on the part of a
stenographer, in the presence of the Wisest Man in Wall Street, was not
unnatural. On occasions, Mr. Thorndike had put even royalty--frayed,
impecunious royalty, on the lookout for a loan--at its ease.

The hood of the car was down, and the taste of the air, warmed by the
sun, was grateful. It was at this time, a year before, that young Spear
picked the spring flowers to take to his mother. A year from now where
would young Spear be?

It was characteristic of the great man to act quickly, so quickly that
his friends declared he was a slave to impulse. It was these same
impulses, leading so invariably to success, that made his enemies call
him the Wisest Man. He leaned forward and touched the chauffeur's
shoulder. "Stop at the Court of General Sessions," he commanded. What he
proposed to do would take but a few minutes. A word, a personal word
from him to the district attorney, or the judge, would be enough. He
recalle