the Romneys mean by 'soon,' and what the
Saltonstals mean by 'immediate,' none of the eight says."

"But they all say that 'with proper care'--" began Vagen, with the faith
of the little in the pretentious.

"So they do! So they do!" interrupted Whitney, whom life had taught not
to measure wisdom by profession of it, nor yet by repute for it. And he
went on in a drowsy drawl, significantly different from his wonted rather
explosive method of speech: "But does any of 'em say what 'proper care'
is? Each gives his opinion. Eight opinions, each different and each
cautioning me against the kind of 'care' prescribed by the other seven.
And I paid six thousand dollars!" A cynical smile played round his
thin-lipped, sensual, selfish mouth.

"Sixty-three hundred," corrected Vagen. He never missed this sort of
chance to impress his master with his passion for accuracy.

"Sixty-three, then. I'd better have given you the money to blow in on
your fliers on wheat and pork."

At this Vagen looked much depressed. It was his first intimation that his
chief knew about his private life. "I hope, sir, nobody has been
poisoning your mind against me," said he. "I court the fullest
investigation. I have been honest--"

"Of course, of course," replied Whitney. "There never was a man as timid
as you are that wasn't honest. What a shallow world it is! How often envy
and cowardice pass for virtue!"

"I often say, sir," replied Vagen, with intent to soothe and flatter,
"there ain't one man in ten million that wouldn't have done the things
you've done if they'd had the brains and the nerve."

"And pray what are the 'things I've done'?" inquired Whitney. But the
flame of irritation was so feeble that it died down before his words were
out. "I'm going down to Saint X to see old Schulze," he drawled on.
"Schulze knows more than any of 'em--and ain't afraid to say when he
don't know." A slow, somewhat sardonic smile. "That's why he's unknown.
What can a wise man, who insists on showing that he's wise, expect in a
world of damn fools?" A long silence during which the uncomfortable Vagen
had the consolation of seeing in that haggard, baggy, pasty-white face
that his master's thoughts were serving him much worse than mere
discomfort. Then Whitney spoke again: "Yes, I'm going to Saint X. I'm
going home to--"

He did not finish; he could not speak the word of finality. Vagen saw the
look in his pale, blue-green eyes, saw that the great financier