Up from the equator had drifted the threat of a scandal, sickening, grim, terrible.  As yet it burned beneath the surface, giving out only an odor, but an odor as rank as burning rubber itself.  At any moment it might break into flame.  For the directors, was it the better wisdom to let the scandal smoulder, and take a chance, or to be the first to give the alarm, the first to lead the way to the horror and stamp it out?

It was to decide this that, in the heat of August, the directors and the president had forgathered.

Champ Thorne knew nothing of this; he knew only that by a miracle Barbara Barnes was in town; that at last he was in a position to ask her to marry him; that she would certainly say she would.  That was all he cared to know.

A year before he had issued his declaration of independence.  Before he could marry, he told her, he must be able to support a wife on what he earned, without her having to accept money from her father, and until he received “a minimum wage” of five thousand dollars they must wait.

“What is the matter with my father’s money?” Barbara had demanded.

Thorne had evaded the direct question.

“There is too much of it,” he said.

“Do you object to the way he makes it?” insisted Barbara.  “Because rubber is most useful.  You put it in golf balls and auto tires and galoches.  There is nothing so perfectly respectable as galoches.  And what is there ‘tainted’ about a raincoat?”

Thorne shook his head unhappily.

“It’s not the finished product to which I refer,” he stammered; “it’s the way they get the raw material.”

“They get it out of trees,” said Barbara.  Then she exclaimed with enlightenment—­“Oh!” she cried, “you are thinking of the Congo.  There it is terrible! That is slavery.  But there are no slaves on the Amazon.  The natives are free and the work is easy.  They just tap the trees the way the farmers gather sugar in Vermont.  Father has told me about it often.”

Thorne had made no comment.  He could abuse a friend, if the friend were among those present, but denouncing any one he disliked as heartily as he disliked Senator Barnes was a public service he preferred to leave to others.  And he knew besides that if the father she loved and the man she loved distrusted each other, Barbara would not rest until she learned the reason why.

One day, in a newspaper, Barbara read of the Puju Mayo atrocities, of the Indian slaves in the jungles and backwaters of the Amazon, who are offered up as sacrifices to “red rubber.”  She carried the paper to her father.  What it said, her father told her, was untrue, and if it were true it was the first he had heard of it.

Senator Barnes loved the good things of life, but the thing he loved most was his daughter; the thing he valued the highest was her good opinion.  So when for the first time she looked at him in doubt, he assured her he at once would order an investigation.