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A sudden gleam shone in Mr. Carroll’s eyes. “You mean that?” he demanded.

His son laughed. “Don’t really know yet. Maybe.”

“Not going back into architecture? Not enough fight in it now, eh? Want something more vigorous.”

“Well,” said Stacey, “I’m not going back into it, architecture, at once, anyway. Want to look around a bit first. Can’t say that I really know what my reasons are.”

His answer was strictly truthful. He did not know his reasons—except that he literally couldn’t have drawn plans for so much as a barn.

His father nodded, then, catching sight of a man who was walking briskly along the sidewalk of the street down which the car was gliding, told the chauffeur to stop, and, leaning out, called: “Colin! Oh, Colin!”

It was Colin Jeffries, president of the smelting works, president of the power plant, vice-president and dictator of the great linseed oil mills, head of a dozen corporations, donor to the city of its art gallery and public library, Vernon’s first citizen. A man of fifty-five, vigorous, keen-eyed, clean-shaven but for a short dark moustache. Not at all like Mr. Carroll in features. As like him as one pea to another in expression.