It never occurred to Henry, when he came home in late July, to take his wife to the big brick house which had been his uncle’s. He didn’t know whether the house would go to Aunt Mirabelle or to himself, and for the time being, it was immaterial; Aunt Mirabelle was welcome to possession of it, undisturbed. Except for his uncle, there would have been open warfare between them long ago; now that the arbitrator was gone, war was inevitable, but Henry wouldn’t fight on sacred ground. He preferred to accept the hospitality of Judge Barklay. The Judge’s house was a third the size, and not the least prepossessing, and there really wasn’t room for the young Devereuxs in it, but as soon as you stepped inside the door, you knew that you were welcome.

He was sorry for his aunt, and he went to see her immediately, but even in this new situation, she let him know that she disapproved of him thoroughly and permanently. She wasn’t reconciled to his marriage; she didn’t care to receive Anna; she implied that regardless of Mr. Starkweather’s express wishes, Henry was a stony-hearted ingrate for remaining so long abroad. To be sure, his presence at home would have served no purpose whatsoever, but Mirabelle was firm in her opinion. More than that, she succeeded in making Henry feel that by his conduct he had hurried his uncle into an untimely grave; she didn’t say this flatly, nor yet by innuendo, but she managed to convey it through the atmosphere.

“Of course,” she said, “you’ve been to call on Mr. Archer, haven’t you?”

Henry flushed indignantly. “I hadn’t even thought about it.”

“Well, when you do, you’ll hear some fine news.” Her lip curled. “Your friend Bob Standish’s bought the business. Some of it, anyway. Bought it on a shoestring’s my guess, but he’s bought it.”

“I didn’t know it, Aunt Mirabelle.”

“Well, they only closed the deal a few days ago.”

“Good for Bob!” He was thinking that if honest toil were demanded of him, nothing could be more pleasant than an alliance with this same Standish. His uncle had always offered up Standish, subtly, as an illustration of what Henry himself ought to be. And it was a tribute to the mutual affection of all three men that Henry had never been irritated at Mr. Starkweather, nor resentful towards his friend. On the contrary, he admitted that unless he were himself, he would rather be Standish than anyone else. He wondered if his uncle could have planned for him so delightful a penance as a year or two of happy servitude under Bob. He must see Bob and congratulate him. Only twenty-seven, and the head of the most important concern of its type in several counties.

Aunt Mirabelle sniffed. “Good for nothing. He’s most as scatter-brained as you are.”

Henry declined the combat, and after she sensed his intention, she went on, with increasing acridity.

“The rest of the whole estate’s tied up for a year in a trust, to see what you’re going to do with some piece of property he deeded to you just before he died, but Mr. Archer wouldn’t tell me much about it ’till you came home. I suppose it’s part of the business some department of it. If you can make ten thousand dollars out of it, you’re to have everything. All I get’s a few thousand outright, and what John gave me in a little separate fund, and a year’s income from the whole estate. I suppose you think that’s perfectly fair and right and just. Naturally, you would.”

In his present mood, Henry was immune to astonishment. “I don’t believe it’s up to me to criticize Uncle John, whatever he did.”

Not under the circumstances, no. Youve got some piece of property I don’t know what it is; he didn’t tell me; I’m only his sister and he’s fixed things so it’s just a gamble for you. You’re going to do the gambling; and I sit back and fold my hands and wait a year to see whether you get everything, or I do. Even this house.”

“What’s that?”

She made a deprecating gesture. “Oh, yes, if you aren’t a good enough gambler, then I come into everything. It puts me in such a sweet position, doesn’t it? So comfortable for me.” Her smile was bitter; she was recalling what her brother had said to her at lunch, on that final day that he wouldn’t listen to her, because already he had heard the worst that she had to say. Originally, as she knew, he had intended to bequeath Henry a fourth of his property, and herself the remainder; and she knew that by her too vigorous indictment of Henry she had egged her brother into a state of mind which, regardless of the cause of it, she still considered to be unfathomable. The memory galled her, and so did the possibility of Henry’s triumph. “Well,” she said, “I wish you every happiness and success, Henry. I suppose you feel in your conscience you deserve it, don’t you?”

When he left her, he was aware that the last tie had been severed.

His friend Bob Standish was a young man who in the past ten years had achieved many different kinds of success by the reason that mere acquaintances, as well as strangers, invariably underestimated him. For one thing, his skin was so tender, his eyes so blue and innocent, his mouth so wide and sensitive, his forehead so white and high, that he gave the impression of almost childish simplicity and ingenuousness. For another thing, he dressed with such meticulous regard for the fashion, and he moved about with such indolent amiability, that his clothes and his manners distracted attention from what was underneath.

And so, at college, a full battalion of kindly sophomores had volunteered to teach him poker, and couldn’t understand why the profits went not to the teacher, but to the pupil. Immature professors, who liked to score off idlers and fat-brained sons of plutocrats, had selected him as the perfect target, and some of them had required several terms to realize that Standish, always baby-eyed, beau-attired and apparently dreaming of far distant things, was never lower in rank than the top twenty of his class. Out on the Field, visiting ends and tackles, meeting him for the first time, had nearly laughed in his face, and prepared to slaughter him, only to discover, with alarm and horror which steadily increased from the first whistle to the last, that Standish could explode his muscles with such a burst of dynamic energy that his hundred and sixty pounds felt like two hundred and ten. It was equally discouraging to learn, from breathless experience, that when he was in his stride he was as unpursueable as a coyote; and that he could diagnose the other fellow’s tactics even before the other fellow had quite decided what to do next.

In commerce, he had merely continued the same species of career; and by virtue of being thoroughly depreciated, and even pitied, by his customers, he had risen in six years from the grade of city insurance solicitor to that of Mr. Starkweather’s principal assistant. And now, as casually as he had ever raked in a jack-pot from the bewildered sophomores, he had bought the Starkweather business, and not on a shoestring, either, as Mirabelle had suspected.

He had roomed with Henry at college; he had been his inseparable companion, out of office hours, ever since; he knew him too well to proffer any trite condolence. But his sympathy was firm and warm in his fingers when he shook hands and Henry got the message.

“Thought probably you’d rather not have me at the train,” said Standish, “so I didn’t come. Right or wrong?”

“Right, Bob.... Allow smoking in your sanctum?”

“Don’t allow anybody not to smoke. What are you doing borrowing or offering?”

Henry glanced at Standish’s brand. “Neither one. Every man for himself and you’ve got vile taste. Well, I hear you’re the big boss around here. Please, mister, gimme a job?”

“Nothing I’d like better,” said Standish. “I’ve got just the thing for you. Sit over on the window-sill and be a lily. Flowers brighten up an office so.”

“You basely misjudge me. Didn’t you know I’m going to work?”

Standish’s eyes were round and guileless. “See any sea-serpents on your way over? I’ve heard there are such things.”

“Fact, though, I am. And you know it, too. I’m hoping it’s here.”

His friend shook his head. “Not here, Henry.”

“No?”

“No, and I’m sorry. I’d make you clean inkwells and say ‘sir,’ and you’d get to be almost as democratic as I am.... Haven’t you seen Archer?”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, just squeamish, I suppose. You sort of hate to think of the cash end of it.”

“That’s right, too. But as long as you’re in the building, you’d better drop in there. From all the talk there is, you’ve picked up a mystery.”

“Mystery? In what way?”

“Not for me to say. Go find out. And say you and Anna come and dine with me tonight, will you? I just want to have you all to myself. Mind?”

“Not noticeably.”

“Good. Seven o’clock. Now get out of here and see Archer. Come back afterwards, if you want to; but do that first.”

As if from pressure of business, he projected Henry into the corridor; and then, meditatively, he returned to his desk. Young Mr. Standish had watched his employer very closely, during those last few days, and in witnessing Mr. Starkweather’s will, he had sensed, intuitively, that it contained a stick of dynamite for Henry.

Mr. Archer, who had known Henry since the Fauntleroy days, greeted him with the proper mixture of repression and cordiality. “But I’m afraid,” owned Mr. Archer, “I’m afraid you’re going to be a little disappointed.”

Henry shook his head. “Then you’ve sized me up all wrong,” he said, much subdued. “Because no matter what I get, I’m going to be satisfied that Uncle John wanted me to have it. Besides, I’ve apparently got to hump myself, or I don’t get anything at all. Aunt Mirabelle gave me some idea of it I’d thought it was probably an interest in the business, but Bob Standish says it isn’t.”

“No, it’s a buildin Main Street. But it’s rather more than a mere building; it is a business. It’s leased until next Monday; after that it’s yours to operate. The deed’s recorded now. It’s yours outright. Did your aunt tell you what the conditions are?”

“All or nothing!”

“Yes. Oh, he made a separate provision for Miss Starkweather; she’ll never go hungry; but the bulk of the estate depends on what you do with the business in the next year. And strictly between ourselves, your uncle expected you to finish with a bit to spare.”

“I know this much; if it’s anything he doped out for me, it’s an even bet. It’s to make ten thousand dollars?”

“Yes, and without any outside help except straight commercial loans if you can get ’em. No favours from anybody, and no free keep from your families.”

“What building is it, Mr. Archer?”

The lawyer paused to wipe his glasses. “It’s one your uncle took over on a mortgage last winter.... You see, Henry, he’d figured out what he was going to do with you, and it would have been this same thing even if he’d lived. He picked out what he thought would do you the most good get you in touch with different people break down some of your (excuse me for being blunt) class prejudice teach you how many dimes there are in a dollar. And for that reason he expressly stipulated that you’ve got to keep your own books. That’ll give you more of a respect for money than anything else would, I guess.”

“Keep my own books?”

“That’s the way Mr. Starkweather began only in his case, he kept somebody else’s. But I warned you to expect something out of the ordinary.”

“Oh, yes,” said Henry. “I was all set for some kind of a low-brow job. What is it a garage?”

“I’m afraid you’ll think a garage is fashionable, compared with it.”

Henry looked serious. “361 Main? I don’t seem to What on earth is it, Mr. Archer?”

“Go down and look at it. Only don’t be shocked, Henry; because it’s exactly what he’d have given you to do, anyway. And then let me know what your plans are, will you? By the way have you any money of your own?”

Henry looked pained. “I’m down to a couple of hundred. Why?”

“Then you’d better not waste any time. Go on down and look it over this morning, and let me know.”

“Why let you know what?”

“Whether you’re going to take the dare.”

Henry’s lips twitched. “Nobody ever beat me by default yet, Mr. Archer.”

“Just the same, I wish you’d let me know definitely won’t you? Of course, if you shouldn’t feel inclined to go ahead on your uncle’s plan and that would disappoint me you could simply sell out. I hope you won’t, though. I hope very much indeed that you won’t. But go look at it. And one last thing, Henry; your uncle put the thing in this shape so that too many people wouldn’t be gossiping about it. I mean, if you and your aunt don’t tell nobody will. That’s all but let me know.”

Obediently, Henry proceeded down Main Street to the 300 block. His curiosity was active, but he was warning himself to be on guard, for his uncle’s sentences, although invariably fair and invariably appropriate, were also founded on a solid base of humour and surprise. Henry remembered what Mr. Starkweather had said about coming home to eat crow, and what Mr. Archer had said about the comparative aristocracy of a garage, and he prepared himself for a thunderstroke, and got a laugh ready. That book-keeping provision was really clever; Uncle John had palpably framed it up to keep Henry on the job. But Henry would outwit the provision. A few lessons in a commercial-school, a modern card-system, and he could handle the books of any small business in no time at all, as per the magazine advertisements. Of course, the crow and the garage were merely symbols; but whatever the business might be, and however distasteful, there was only a year of it, and after that (so confident was Henry) there was a lifetime of luxury. He was rather glad that his penance came first; it would serve to make the enjoyment of his wealth so much more zestful. He should always feel as though he had worked for it, instead of having it handed out to him on a platter, regardless of his personal deserts. Yes, he would work faithfully, and because the task would be within his capabilities, (for Mr. Starkweather was sane and practical, and Mr. Archer had prophesied a finish with something to spare) he would end his probation in a blaze of glory, and Anna would be proud of him, Judge Barklay would approve of him, and Aunt Mirabelle would have to revise her estimate of him. Altogether, it was a fine arrangement, provided that his business, whatever it was, wouldn’t entirely prevent him from keeping up with the procession, socially, and playing enough golf to hold his present form.

He had passed 331 and 341 and 351 and his heart began to beat more rapidly. This was almost as exciting as a Christmas stocking in the Fauntleroy days. His eyes were searching among the numbers; there was a four-story office building (335) and an automobile agency (339) ... and next to that .... Henry halted, and the laugh dried up in his throat. He had been prepared for anything but the reality. The ark of his fortunes was a shabby little motion-picture theatre.

Gasping, he looked up again at the number, and when he realized that he had made no mistake, his knees turned to gelatine, and he stood staring, fascinated, numbed. His eyes wandered blankly from the crumbling ticket-booth to the unkempt lobby and back to the lurid billing the current attraction was a seven-reel thriller entitled “What He Least Expected,” but Henry missed the parallel. With trembling fingers he produced a cigarette, but in his daze he blew out two matches in succession. He crushed the cigarette in his palm, and moved a few steps towards the lobby. Great Heaven, was it possible that John Starkweather had condemned Henry the fashionable, Henry the clubable, Henry the exclusive to a year of this? Was this his punishment for the past? Was this the price of his future? This picayune sordidness, and vulgarity and decay? Evidently, it was so intended, and so ordered.

His power of reason was almost atrophied. He struggled to understand his uncle’s purpose; his uncle’s logic. To break down his class prejudice, and teach him the dimes in a dollar, and put him on the level of a workingman? All that could have been accomplished by far less drastic methods. It could have been accomplished by a tour of duty with Bob. To be sure, Mr. Starkweather had promised him the meanest job in the directory, but Henry had put it down as a figure of speech. Now, he was faced with the literal interpretation of it, and ahead of him there was a year of trial, and then all or nothing.

He succeeded in lighting a fresh cigarette, but he couldn’t taste it. Previously he had paid his forfeits with the best of good-nature, but his previous forfeits hadn’t obliged him to declass himself. They hadn’t involved his wife. He hadn’t married Anna to drag her down to this. It would stand them in a social pillory, targets for those who had either admired them or envied them. It would make them the most conspicuous pair in the whole community: older people would point to them as an illustration of justice visited on blind youth, and would chuckle to observe Henry in the process of receiving his come-uppance: the younger set would quake with merriment and poor jokes and sly allusions to Henry’s ancient grandeur. Even Bob Standish would have to hide his amusement; why, Bob himself had made society and success his fétiches. And Anna Anna who was so ambitious for him how could she endure the status of a cheap showman’s wife?

And even if she had been willing to ally himself with such a business, how could he conceivably make ten thousand dollars out of it in a single year? Ten? It would take a genius to make five. An inexperienced man, with luck, might make two or three. He couldn’t afford to hire a trained man to manage it for him: the place was too small to support such a man, and still to net any appreciable profit. Mr. Starkweather had undoubtedly foreseen this very fact foreseen that Henry couldn’t sit back as a magnate, and pile responsibility on a paid employe. To reach his quota, Henry would have to get in all over, and act as his own manager, and take the resulting publicity and the social isolation. But the business was impossible, the quota was impossible, the entire project from first to last was unthinkable. His uncle, whether by accident or design, had virtually disowned him. There was no other answer.

His laugh came back to him, but there was no hilarity in it. It was merely an expression of his helplessness; it was tragedy turned inside out. Yet he felt no resentment towards his uncle, but rather an overwhelming pity. He felt no resentment towards his friend Standish, who had bought out the perfectly respectable business which Mr. Starkweather might so easily have left to Henry. Mr. Starkweather had schemed to bring about a certain reaction, and he had overplayed his hand. Instead of firing Henry with a new ardour for success, he had convinced him of the futility of endeavour. He had set a standard so high, and chosen a medium so low, that he had defeated his own object.

The next step why, it was to chart his life all over again. It was to dispose of this ridiculous property, and begin to make a living for Anna. And there was no time to lose, either, for Henry’s checking balance was about to slide past the vanishing point.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to meet the gravely sympathetic eyes of Mr. Theodore Mix.

Mr. Mix was fresh from an interview with Miss Mirabelle Starkweather. Her acquaintance with him was slight, but from a distance she had always esteemed him, partly for his mature good-looks, and partly for the distinguished manner which had always been a large fraction of his stock-in-trade, and was now to be listed among his principal assets. Her esteem, however, applied to him merely as an individual, and not as a debtor.

“I wanted to see you about a note,” she said, primly. “A five thousand dollar demand note you gave my brother four months ago. He endorsed it over to me, and I wanted to see you about it.”

Mr. Mix allowed his mouth to widen in a smile which was disarmingly benevolent. The horse at Bowie had proved dark indeed, so dark that it had still been merged with the background when the winner passed the judge’s stand and this colour-test had cost Mr. Mix precisely two thousand dollars. Beyond that, he had paid off a few of his most pressing creditors, and he had spent a peculiarly carefree week in New York (where he had also taken a trifling flyer in cotton, and made a disastrous forced landing) so that there was practically nothing but his smile between himself and bankruptcy. Yet Mr. Mix beamed, with almost ecclesiastical poise, upon the holder of his demand note, and tried her with honey.

“Ordinarily, I’m embarrassed to talk business with a woman,” said Mr. Mix. “I’m so conscious of the what shall I say? of a woman’s disadvantage in a business interview. But in your case, Miss Starkweather, when your executive ability is so well known and so universally praised

She nodded, and took it without discount, but she wasn’t distracted from her purpose. “I hope it’s convenient for you to pay it, Mr. Mix.”

“If it weren’t convenient,” said Mr. Mix, soothingly, “I should make it convenient. When the sister of my oldest friend a man who once sat at the same desk with me, when we were young clerks together when his sister is in need of funds, I

“’T isn’t that,” she said, quickly. “I want this money for some special reason.”

He inclined his head slightly. “One of your favourite charities, I have no doubt. But whatever the reason, the obligation is the same. Now, let’s see I’ll have to sell some securities when must you have it?”

“Next Tuesday.”

Inwardly, Mr. Mix was startled, but outwardly he looked grieved. “Tuesday? Now that is wait a minute.” He created the impression that he was juggling vast affairs, in order to gratify a whim of his old friend’s sister. As a matter of fact, he was wondering what plausible excuse he could give without revealing any hint of the truth. “Is Tuesday imperative?”

“Tuesday by ten o’clock in the morning.”

His face cleared, “You’ve shared a secret with me,” said Mr. Mix, and although he spoke aloud, his attitude was as though he were whispering. “Because I happen to know that every Tuesday at ten o’clock there’s a meeting of a a certain organization of which you’re the illustrious president. Needless to say, I refer to the Ethical Reform League.” He lowered his voice. “I ask your pardon for the intrusion of anything of such a delicately personal nature, Miss Starkweather, but I must tell you that when a person, such as yourself, even in the midst of inconsolable sorrow, can’t forget that great principles and great institutions can never perish, but are immortal, and go on forever that’s true nobility of character, Miss Starkweather, and I honour you for it.”

She touched her eyes with her handkerchief. “Thank you, Mr. Mix. Yes, I intend to make a contribution to our League in memory of my brother. You’re familiar with our League?”

He gestured effectively. “Familiar with it? You might as well ask me if I’m familiar with the Emancipation Proclamation the Magna Charta.” And this was accurate; his knowledge of all three was based on hearsay evidence.

“And are you at all in sympathy with it?”

“My dear lady! I was one of the pioneer supporters of suffrage in this region. I

“Yes, I know that, and I know your work in the Associated Charities, and in your church, but how did you vote on prohibition?”

He side-stepped with great agility. “How would any man of my calibre vote?”

“True, true.” She was becoming animated.

“But we’ve tremendous problems yet to solve.... Do you believe in enforcing the laws, Mr. Mix? The Sunday laws especially?”

Mr. Mix picked up his cue, and gave thanks for the diversion. “Dear lady, I am a citizen. As a citizen, I help to make the laws; they’re made by all of us for our own good. Show me a man who doesn’t believe in enforcing the laws, and I won’t argue with him I couldn’t count on his sincerity.”

“It’s a pleasure to talk to a man like you,” she said. “I wonder if you agree with our other ideals. Er what do you think about dancing?”

He had a good phrase which he had been saving up for six weeks. “Dancing,” he said, “is popular because it’s so conspicuously innocent, and so warmly satisfactory to the guilty.”

“Good! Good! How about tobacco?”

This, too, he side-stepped. “It’s a poison, so the doctors say. Who am I to put any opinion against theirs?”

She was regarding him earnestly, and a little perplexedly.

“How is it, when in spirit you’re one of us, you’ve never joined the League?”

“I-I’ve never been invited,” said Mr. Mix, somewhat taken aback.

“Then I invite you,” she said, promptly. “And I know you’ll accept. It’s men like you we need men with some backbone; prominent, useful citizens. You sit right there. I’ve got an application blank in my desk. Read it over when you get home, and sign it and mail it to me.”

“I appreciate the distinction of your asking me,” said Mr. Mix, with supreme deference. “And if you have time, I wish you’d tell me what your aims are. I am very deeply interested.”

He stayed another half hour, and the conversation never swerved from the entertaining subject of reform. Mr. Mix was insufferably bored, and cumulatively restless, but he was convinced that he was making headway, so that he kept his mind relentlessly on the topic, and dispensed honey by the shovelful. When he prepared to leave, he tested out his conviction, and reminded her gently: “Now, in regard to that note

Mirabelle was blinded by her own visionings, and deafened by her own eloquence. “Well, we’ll have to take that up again But you come to the meeting Tuesday, anyhow. And here’s one of our pamphlets for you to look at in the meantime.”

As he went down the steps, she was watching him, from the ambush of lace window-curtains, and she was saying to herself: “Such a nice man so influential, too.... Now if I could get him persuaded over

Mr. Mix, strolling nonchalantly downtown, was also talking to himself, and his conclusions would have astonished her. “What I’ve got to do,” said Mr. Mix, thoughtfully, “is to string the old dame along until I can raise five thousand bucks. But where’s it coming from?”

Then, squarely in front of the Orpheum Theatre, he met Henry Devereux.

“Good-morning, Henry,” said Mr. Mix, soberly. “First time I’ve had a chance to speak to you since....” He coughed discreetly. “I don’t believe I need to say that if there’s anything I can do for you at any time, all you’ve got to do is to say so.”

Privately, Henry had always considered Mr. Mix as a genial poseur, but he knew that Mr. Mix belonged to the Citizens Club, which was the local standard, and that for thirty years he had been on rather intimate business relations with Mr. Starkweather. This was sufficient recommendation for Henry, in the swirl of his agitation, to loose his tongue.

“All right,” he said. “Tell me how soon I can sell this overgrown magic-lantern outfit and what I can get for it and where I can put the money to bring in the biggest income and where I can get a good job.”

Now all this was intended to be purely in the nature of a rhetorical question: for naturally, if Henry decided to sell, he would want Bob Standish to handle the transaction for him, and to get the commission: and also, if Henry had to find employment, he would go to his friend, and be sure of a cordial reception. But Mr. Mix took it literally.

Mr. Mix started, and his memory began to unfold. It was on the tip of his tongue to blurt out: “And lose your shot at the estate?” but he restrained himself. He wasn’t supposed to know the circumstances, and as a matter of fact, as he realized with a thrill of relish, he was probably the only outsider who did know the circumstances. “Why,” said Mr. Mix. “Do you own the Orpheum? Well, I should say offhand it’s worth a good deal. Twenty thousand. The land, you know: the building’s no good.”

Henry nodded impatiently. “Yes, but who’d buy it?”

“Well, now, about that of course, I’m not a real estate man but you could certainly trade it.”

“What for?”

Mr. Mix caught the note of sincerity in Henry’s voice, and Mr. Mix thought rapidly. He appeared to deliberate, to waver, to burn his bridges. “Well say for a third interest in Theodore Mix and Company.”

Henry stared. “Are you serious?”

Mr. Mix almost fell over backwards. “Why, yes. It’s sudden, but ... why, yes. I could use more capital, and I want a crack salesman. I’ll trade if you’re quick on the trigger. I’ve got two or three people interested so far, but when it’s you

Henry took him by the arm. “Come on over to the Citizens Club, then, and we’ll talk about it.”