denly
changed his mind again, rose, and made his way through the corridors to
his father's office. The Honourable Hilary was absorbed in his daily
perusal of the Guardian.

"Judge," he asked, "is Mr. Flint up at his place this week?"

The Honourable Hilary coughed.

"He arrived yesterday on the three. Er--why?"

"I wanted to go up and thank him for this," his son answered, holding up
the red piece of cardboard. "Mr. Flint is a very thoughtful man."

The Honourable Hilary tried to look unconcerned, and succeeded.

"Sent you an annual, has he? Er--I don't know as I'd bother him
personally, Austen. Just a pleasant note of acknowledgment."

"I don't flatter myself that my achievements in the law can be
responsible for it," said Austen. "The favour must be due to my
relationship with his eminent chief counsel."

Hilary Vane's keen eyes rested on his son for an instant. Austen was more
than ever an enigma to him.

"I guess relationship hasn't got much to do with business," he replied.
"You have be'n doing--er--better than I expected."

"Thank you, Judge," said Austen, quietly. "I don't mind saying that I
would rather have your approbation than--this more substantial
recognition of merit."

The Honourable Hilary's business was to deal with men, and by reason of
his ability in so doing he had made a success in life. He could judge
motives more than passably well, and play upon weaknesses. But he left
Austen's presence that morning vaguely uneasy, with a sense of having
received from his own son an initial defeat at a game of which he was a
master. Under the excuse of looking up some precedents, he locked his
doors to all comers for two hours, and paced his room. At one moment he
reproached himself for not having been frank; for not having told Austen
roundly that this squeamishness about a pass was unworthy of a strong man
of affairs; yes, for not having revealed to him the mysteries of railroad
practice from the beginning. But frankness was not an ingredient of the
Honourable Hilary's nature, and Austen was not the kind of man who would
accept a hint and a wink. Hilary Vane had formless forebodings, and found
himself for once in his life powerless to act.

The cost of living in Ripton was not so high that Austen Vane could not
afford to keep a horse and buggy. The horse, which he tended himself, was
appropriately called Pepper; Austen had found him in the hills, and he
was easily the finest animal in Ripton: so g