y to his secretary." And thus was the manner of the Celt's
diplomacy. "Hello,--Mr. Pierce's secretary?--Tell Mr. Pierce--get this
_verbatim_, please,--that Mr. Harrington Surtaine is busy at present,
but will try to find time to see him here--_here_, mind you, at the
'Clarion' office, at 4.30 this afternoon--What? Oh, yes; you understood,
all right. Don't be young.--What? Do _not_ sputter into the
'phone.--Just give him the message.--No; Mr. Surtaine will not speak
with you.--Nor with Mr. Pierce. He's busy.--_Good_-bye."

"Two hours leeway before the storm," said Hal. "Why deliberately stir
him up, Mac?"

"No one ever saw Pierce lose his temper. I've a curiosity in that
direction. Besides, he'll be easier to handle, mad. Do you know Pierce?"

"I've lunched with him, and been there to the house to dinner once or
twice. Wish I hadn't."

"Let me give you a little outline of him. Elias M. is the hard-shell New
England type. He was brought up in the fear of God and the Poor-House.
God was a good way off, I guess; but there stood the Poor-House on the
hill, where you couldn't help but see it. The way of salvation from it
was through the dollar. Elias M. worked hard for his first dollar, and
for his millionth. He's still working hard. He still finds the fear of
God useful: he puts it into everybody that goes up against his game. The
fear of the Poor-House is with him yet, though he doesn't realize it.
It's the mainspring of his religion. There's nothing so mean as fear;
and Elias M.'s fear is back of all his meanness, his despotism in
business, his tyranny as an employer. I tell you, Boss, if you ever saw
a hellion in a cutaway coat, Elias M. Pierce is it, and you're going to
smell sulphur when he gets here. Better let him do the talking, by the
way."

Prompt to the minute, Elias M. Pierce arrived. With him came William
Douglas, his personal counsel. Having risen to greet them, Hal stood
leaning against his desk, after they were seated. The lawyer disposed
himself on the far edge of his chair, as if fearing that a more
comfortable pose might commit him to something. Mr. Pierce sat solid and
square, a static force neatly buttoned into a creaseless suit. His face
was immobile, but under the heavy lids the eyes smouldered, dully. The
tone of his voice was lifelessly level: yet with an immanent menace.

"I do not make appointments outside my own office--" he began, looking
straight ahead of him.

Mindful of Ellis's advice,