pected to take half the amount
of the note out of Mr. Eugene's quarter-share?" he says.

Wilmarth starts, then puts on an air of surprise that is quite evident
to the others.

"That _is_ a mistake," he admits frankly. "No doubt we should have
found it out in the course of settlement. I trusted most of this matter
to Eugene, and he surely should not have wronged himself. But it is all
of no consequence now; as well tear up the memorandum. But, Mr. Grandon,
if you are to be your brother's banker, may I trouble you to settle
these?"

He hands Floyd three notes. They aggregate nearly two thousand dollars.
Floyd Grandon folds them without a motion of surprise, and promises to
attend to them to-morrow, when the note is taken up.

"Your brother has not your father's head for business," Wilmarth says,
with scarcely concealed contempt.

"No. It is quite a matter of regret, since it was to be his portion."

"To-morrow we will meet here for the settlement of the note," announces
Mr. Connery. Then they say good morning with outward politeness.

Wilmarth's eyes follow Grandon's retreating figure. He has mistaken his
man, a thing he seldom does; but Floyd's antecedents, his refinement,
and scholarly predilections have misled him into believing he could be
as easily managed as Eugene. Wilmarth has given his adversary one
advantage which he bitterly regrets. When Eugene named half for his
share of the note he had let it go, and in the two or three
after-references Eugene clearly had not seen it. Wilmarth had repeated
the statement carelessly, and now he would give much to recall it,
though otherwise it might have gone without a thought.

Eugene absents himself all day. Mrs. Grandon is much distressed, but
she is afraid to question Floyd. Even the next morning they merely nod
carelessly, and no word is said until Floyd brings home the notes.

"Have you any more debts?" Floyd asks in a quiet tone, which he means
to be kindly as well.

"No." Then curiosity gets the better of the young man. "Was there an
awful row, Floyd?"

"Mr. Wilmarth, of course, saw the utter impossibility of any such
agreement. Eugene," slowly, "is there anything you would like better
than the business?"

"No business at all," answers Eugene, with audacious frankness. "I
really haven't any head for it."

"But you understand--something, surely? You can--keep books, for
instance? What did you do in father's time?"

"Made myself generally useful. Wrote