the scenes which, in the few hours since my
return, had begun to spell insufferable _ennui_. Yes, I said I would
meet Mr. Weighborne. Why not?

Having promised to be on hand at two o'clock, I began a strange quest
that came to nothing. In Times Square and Park Row I spent several dusty
hours running through newspaper files, and going back to dates five and
six years old. I was hunting for a pictorial section of the same general
style as that which bore the portrait. I found one or two printed with a
like make-up on similar paper, but not even of the exact size, and
although I followed these through the Sundays of several years, I came
in the end only to the conclusion that the paper had been printed
outside of New York.

Weighborne impressed me. In physique and mind and energy he was big and
virile. One could glance at him in his carelessly correct clothes and
know that he would be equally at home in drawing-room or saddle. The
Kentuckian had to cut short his visit with us, since he was leaving the
same day for the South, and what talk we had was limited in its scope.
Yet his personality charmed me and compelled admiration. He was that
type of man who escaped the preliminaries with which the average
promoter of large schemes must convince his hearers. His own bearing and
breadth carried with it an assurance of trustworthiness and energy. His
steady gray eyes had a compelling and purposeful clarity, and I could
not help thinking as we talked what such a companionship would have
meant in those other days of loneliness and danger. Weighborne was the
sort of fellow one would like to have at his back in difficulties. I
agreed to meet him in Lexington three days hence and accompany him to
the properties which he hoped to develop.

There was a minor element of personal risk, he warned me. We should
perhaps encounter the dislike of certain men who were of the feudist
type. He spoke lightly of this feature, but as a matter concerning which
it was only the part of fairness to inform me.

Later in the day while glancing over the papers I came upon the
announcement that a new play was to have its premiere that evening at a
Broadway house, and in the name of the author, I found my interest
piqued. Bob Maxwell was an old friend. He had fought a long fight for
success and had found the goddess cold and offstanding. We had been
fellows in literary aspiration, and he had been, when I last saw him,
still floundering for support in t