"A Mr. Ballantree," panted Jack. "I have just left him at the Astor
House."

"I never heard of him. Look out, my boy--don't sign anything until
you--"

"Oh, he is only the general manager. It's a Mr. Guthrie--Robert A.
Guthrie--who wants it. He sent Mr. Ballantree."

"Robert Guthrie! The banker! That's our director; that's the man I told
you of. I gave him your address. Go and see him by all means and tell
him everything. Talk just as you would to me. One of the best men in the
Street. Not a crooked hair on his head, Jack. Well--well--this does look
like business."

"Pardon me, sir, one minute, if you please--" interpolated Peter to an
insistent depositor whom Jack in his impatience had crowded out. "Now
your book--thank you--And Jack"--this over the hat of the depositor, his
face a marvel of delight--"come to my rooms at four--wait for me--I'll
be there."

Out again and around the block; anything to kill time until the precious
hour should arrive. Lord!--how the minutes dragged. The hands of the old
clock of Trinity spire must be stuck together. Any other day it would
take him at least half an hour to walk up Wall Street, down Broadway to
the Battery and back again--now ten minutes was enough. Would the minute
hand never climb up the face to the hour hand and the two get together
at twelve, and so end his impatience. He wished now he had telegraphed
to Ruth not to expect him until the late afternoon train. He thought
he would do it now. Then he changed his mind. No; it would be better to
await the result of his interview. Yet still the clock dragged on, and
still he waited for the magic hour. Ten minutes to twelve--five--then
twelve precisely--but by this time he was closeted inside Mr. Guthrie's
private office.

Peter also found the hours dragging. What could it all mean? he kept
asking himself as he handed back the books through his window, his eyes
wandering up to the old-fashioned clock. Robert Guthrie the banker--a
REAL banker--had sent for the boy--Guthrie, who never made a too hurried
move. Could it be possible that good fortune was coming to Jack?--that
he and Ruth--that--Ah! old fellow, you nearly made a mistake with the
amount of that check! No--there was no use in supposing. He would just
wait for Jack's story.

When he reached home he was still in the same overwrought, anxious
state--hoping against hope. When would the boy come? he asked himself a
hundred times as he fussed about his room, nipping