thrust upon him, if it can be
done. His father seems confident, but how will liabilities and assets
balance? Then he remembers the luxury at home, Eugene's fast horse, and
his air of easy indifference. Certainly there must be something.

After a while the quiet oppresses him. He saunters around the room,
that wears the aspect of indolent ease rather than business. Then he
emerges into a wide hallway, and strolls over opposite. Here is a
well-packed storehouse, then a small place in semi-obscurity, into
which he peers wonderingly, when a figure rises that startles him out
of his self-possession for a moment.

A man whose age would be hard to tell, though his thick, short hair is
iron gray and his beard many shades whiter. Short of stature, with very
high shoulders, that suggest physical deformity, squarely built and
stout, a square, rugged face, with light, steely eyes and overhanging
brows. It _is_ a repellent face and form, and Floyd Grandon says
slowly,--

"Pardon my intrusion. I--" rather embarrassed at the steady gaze--"I am
Mr. Floyd Grandon."

"Ah!" There is something akin to a sneer in the exclamation. "Doubtless
your brother has spoken of me,--Jasper Wilmarth."

This, then, is his father's partner. He is utterly amazed, bewildered.

"I heard of your return," he continues. There is something peculiar, as
if the man weighed every word. "We have been looking for you," rather
dryly.

"I hope my delay has not proved injurious to the business," says
Grandon, recovering his usual dignity. "I find that I am executor of
the estate with my mother, and I suppose some steps are necessary. I
shall qualify immediately. In what condition is the business?"

"Bad enough," is the reply. "Trade is dull, and I am sorry to say that
our new machinery, put in at a great expense, does not work
satisfactorily."

Floyd is startled at the frankness, as well as the admission.

"Where is the other partner, Mr. St. Vincent?"

"Out of town somewhere," indifferently.

"He holds the patent----"

"That we were wild enough to undertake; yes."

"My father seemed to have great hopes of it."

The high shoulders are shrugged higher. There is something bitter and
contemptuous in the man's face, a look that indicates fighting, though
what can there be to fight about?

The great bell rings out again. Nooning is over, and there are hurrying
steps up the wide alleyway.

"I wonder," Floyd begins, "if you know where my brother went. H