! Read this--from young Valiant." He passed over a
letter.

Fargo read. He looked up. "Securities aggregating three millions!" he
said in a hushed voice. "Why, unless I've been misinformed, that
represents practically all his private fortune."

The other nodded. "Turned over to the Corporation with his resignation
as a vice-president, and without a blessed string tied to 'em! What do
you think of that?"

"Think! It's the most absurdly idiotic thing I ever met. Two weeks ago,
before the investigation ... but _now_, when it's perfectly certain they
can bring nothing home to him--" He paused. "Of course I suppose it'll
save the Corporation, eh? But it may be ten years before its securities
pay dividends. And this is real money. Where the devil does _he_ come in
meanwhile?"

The receiver pursed his lips. "I knew his father," he said. "He had the
same crazy quixotic streak."

He gathered the scattered documents and locked them carefully with the
satchel in a safe. "Spectacular young ass!" he said explosively.

"I should say so!" agreed Fargo. "Do you know, I used to be afraid my
Katharine had a leaning toward him. But thank God, she's a sensible
girl!"

CHAPTER III

THE NEVER-NEVER LAND

Dusk had fallen that evening when John Valiant's Panhard turned into
a cross-street and circled into the yawning mouth of his garage. Here,
before he descended, he wrote a check on his knee with a slobbering
fountain-pen.

"Lars," he said to the chauffeur, "as I dare say you've heard, things
have not gone exactly smoothly with me lately, and I'm uncertain
about my plans. I've made arrangements to turn the car over to the
manufacturers, and take back the old one. I must drive myself hereafter.
I'm sorry, but you must look for another place."

The dapper young Swede touched his cap gratefully as he looked at the
check's figures. Embarrassment was burning his tongue. "I--I've heard,
sir. I'm sure it's very kind, sir, and when you need another...."

"Thank you, Lars," said Valiant, as he shook hands, "and good luck. I'll
remember."

Lars, the chauffeur, looked after him. "Going to skip out, he is! I
thought so when he brought that stuff out of the safe-deposit. Afraid
they'll try to take the boodie away from him, I guess. The papers seem
to think he's rotten, but he's been a mighty good boss to me. He's a
dead swell, all right, anyhow," he added pridefully, as he slid the car
to its moorings, "and they'll have to get up