important city in the United States. San
Francisco was provincial, New York was effete; the future of America
lay in the development of its economic possibilities, and Chicago, by
its position and by the energy of its citizens, was destined to become
the real capital of the country.

"I guess I shall live long enough to see it the biggest city in the
world," Bateman said to himself as he stepped down to the platform.

His father had come to meet him, and after a hearty handshake, the pair
of them, tall, slender, and well-made, with the same fine, ascetic
features and thin lips, walked out of the station. Mr Hunter's
automobile was waiting for them and they got in. Mr Hunter caught his
son's proud and happy glance as he looked at the street.

"Glad to be back, son?" he asked.

"I should just think I was," said Bateman.

His eyes devoured the restless scene.

"I guess there's a bit more traffic here than in your South Sea island,"
laughed Mr Hunter. "Did you like it there?"

"Give me Chicago, dad," answered Bateman.

"You haven't brought Edward Barnard back with you."

"No."

"How was he?"

Bateman was silent for a moment, and his handsome, sensitive face
darkened.

"I'd sooner not speak about him, dad," he said at last.

"That's all right, my son. I guess your mother will be a happy woman
to-day."

They passed out of the crowded streets in the Loop and drove along the
lake till they came to the imposing house, an exact copy of a chateau on
the Loire, which Mr Hunter had built himself some years before. As soon
as Bateman was alone in his room he asked for a number on the telephone.
His heart leaped when he heard the voice that answered him.

"Good-morning, Isabel," he said gaily.

"Good-morning, Bateman."

"How did you recognise my voice?"

"It is not so long since I heard it last. Besides, I was expecting you."

"When may I see you?"

"Unless you have anything better to do perhaps you'll dine with us
to-night."

"You know very well that I couldn't possibly have anything better to
do."

"I suppose that you're full of news?"

He thought he detected in her voice a note of apprehension.

"Yes," he answered.

"Well, you must tell me to-night. Good-bye."

She rang off. It was characteristic of her that she should be able to
wait so many unnecessary hours to know what so immensely concerned her.
To Bateman there was an admirable fortitude in her restraint.

At dinner, at which beside himse