Denning pulled his mustache violently, a token with him of complete bewilderment.

“H’m—­er—­exactly,” he murmured.  “Of course, if that’s the way you feel now—­and you have your reasons, I suppose—­I’ll call Langley up.  He’ll be horribly disappointed, though.  He’s pluming himself on landing this quick getaway for you.  He’s been staking out the whole plan.”

Gard chuckled.  “Do you remember, Denning, how hard you worked to make me go to Washington—­and how my ‘duty to our stockholders’ was your favorite weapon?  Where has all that noble enthusiasm gone—­eh?”

Denning blushed.  “But we were in a very dangerous hole.  Things are different now.”

“Yes,” said Gard with finality, “they are—­don’t forget it.”

“Well,” and Denning rose, discomfited, “I’m going.  Three o’clock, Gard, the directors’ meeting.  I’ll see you then.”

He shook hands and turned to the door, paused, turned again as if to reopen the subject, checked himself and went out.

As the door closed Gard chuckled.  “I bet he’s cracking his skull to find out my game,” he thought with amusement.  “By the time he reaches the office, he’ll have worked it out that I’m more far-sighted than the rest of them, and am making character; that I’m trying to do business by the Ten Commandments will never occur to him.”  He returned to the table and resumed his task, paused and sat gazing absently at the contorted inkwells.

His secretary entered quietly, a sheaf of letters in his hand.

“Saunders,” said Marcus Gard, not raising his eyes from their absorbed contemplation, “did you ever let yourself imagine how hard it is to do business in a strictly honest manner, when the whole world seems to have lost the habit—­if it ever had the habit?”

Saunders looked puzzled.  “I don’t know, sir.  Mr. Mahr is in the hall and wants to see you,” he added, glad to change the subject.

“Is he?  Good.  Tell him to come in.”  Gard rose with cordial welcome as Teddy entered.

There was an air of responsibility about the younger man, calmness, observation and concentration, very different from his former light-hearted, easy-mannered boyishness.  Gard’s greeting was affectionate.  “Well, boy, what brings you out so early?  Taking your responsibilities seriously?  And in what can I help you?”

Teddy blushed.  “Mr. Gard,” he said, hurrying his words with embarrassment, “I wish you’d let me give you the Vandyke—­please do.  I don’t want to sell it to you.  Duveen’s men are bringing it over to you this morning; they are on their way now.  I want you to have it.  I—­I—­” He looked up and gazed frankly in the older man’s face, unashamed of the mist of tears that blinded him.  “I know father would want you to have it.  And I know, Mr. Gard, what you did to shield his memory.  If you hadn’t gone to Field—­if you hadn’t taken the matter in charge—­” He choked and broke off.  “I don’t know anything—­but you handled the situation as I could not.  Please—­won’t you take the Vandyke?”