ne. Nolan never troubled himself to be agreeable unless
it suited his inclination, and apparently Terry found nothing unusual in
his attitude. But Rodney did.

"Something he could build?" said Nolan, repeating Terry's question.
"How do I know? There's a lot of building going on, Page, but it's not
exactly your sort." And there was a faint note of contempt in his voice.

"Who would be the man to see in Washington?" Rodney inquired.

"I'll look it up and let you know. You might call me up to-morrow."

Old Terry, having got them together, went back to his billiards and left
them. Nolan sat down and picked up his paper, with an air of ending the
interview. But he put it down again as Rodney turned to leave the room.

"Page!"

"Yes?"

"D'you mind having a few minutes talk?"

Rodney braced himself.

"Not at all."

But Nolan was slow to begin. He sat, newspaper on his knee, his deep-set
eyes thoughtful. When he began it was slowly.

"I am one of Clay Spencer's oldest friends," he said. "He's a white man,
the whitest man I know. Naturally, anything that touches him touches me,
in a way."

"Well?"

"The name stands for a good bit, too. His father and his grandfather
were the same sort. It's not often in this town that we have three
generations without a breath of scandal against them."

Rodney flushed angrily.

"What has that got to do with me?" he demanded.

"I don't know. I don't want to know. I simply wanted to tell you
that there are a good many of us who take a peculiar pride in Clayton
Spencer, and who resent anything that reflects on a name we respect
rather highly."

"That sounds like a threat."

"Not at all. I was merely calling your attention to something I thought
perhaps you had forgotten." Then he got up' and his tone changed, became
brisk, almost friendly. "Now, about this building thing. If you're in
earnest I think it can be managed. You won't get any money to speak of,
you know."

"I don't want any money," sullenly.

"Fine. You'll probably have to go west somewhere, and you'll be set down
in the center of a hundred corn-fields and told to make them overnight
into a temporary town. I suppose you've thought of all that?"

"I'll go wherever I'm sent."

"Come along to the telephone, then."

Rodney hesitated. He felt cheap and despicable, and his anger was still
hot. They wanted to get him out of town. He saw that. They took little
enough trouble to hide it. Well, he would go. He wanted