de Park company Cowperwood, because he
never cared to put all his eggs in one basket, decided to secure a
second lawyer and a second dummy president, although he proposed to
keep De Soto Sippens as general practical adviser for all three or four
companies. He was thinking this matter over when there appeared on the
scene a very much younger man than the old General, one Kent Barrows
McKibben, the only son of ex-Judge Marshall Scammon McKibben, of the
State Supreme Court. Kent McKibben was thirty-three years old, tall,
athletic, and, after a fashion, handsome. He was not at all vague
intellectually--that is, in the matter of the conduct of his
business--but dandified and at times remote. He had an office in one
of the best blocks in Dearborn Street, which he reached in a reserved,
speculative mood every morning at nine, unless something important
called him down-town earlier. It so happened that he had drawn up the
deeds and agreements for the real-estate company that sold Cowperwood
his lots at Thirty-seventh Street and Michigan Avenue, and when they
were ready he journeyed to the latter's office to ask if there were any
additional details which Cowperwood might want to have taken into
consideration. When he was ushered in, Cowperwood turned to him his
keen, analytical eyes and saw at once a personality he liked. McKibben
was just remote and artistic enough to suit him. He liked his clothes,
his agnostic unreadableness, his social air. McKibben, on his part,
caught the significance of the superior financial atmosphere at once.
He noted Cowperwood's light-brown suit picked out with strands of red,
his maroon tie, and small cameo cuff-links. His desk, glass-covered,
looked clean and official. The woodwork of the rooms was all cherry,
hand-rubbed and oiled, the pictures interesting steel-engravings of
American life, appropriately framed. The typewriter--at that time just
introduced--was in evidence, and the stock-ticker--also new--was
ticking volubly the prices current. The secretary who waited on
Cowperwood was a young Polish girl named Antoinette Nowak, reserved,
seemingly astute, dark, and very attractive.

"What sort of business is it you handle, Mr. McKibben?" asked
Cowperwood, quite casually, in the course of the conversation. And
after listening to McKibben's explanation he added, idly: "You might
come and see me some time next week. It is just possible that I may
have something in your line."

In anot