flashed down his limbs. This was the moment, the one he had plotted and planned—the moment when a new administrator would be named in a new will—
But before Luke could go on the door opened, a maid slipped in and dropped letters on the desk.
The intrusion distracted the old man, whose eyes rested on the mail. Rowe followed the girl's retreat from the room as though he could have harmed her for that break—and Luke was saying:
"What's in the mail, Rowe? Anything from—"
The other put his note book down and ran through the letters.
"Prom McLellan—Internal Revenue collector, Red Cross—Here's one from Pancake."
"From John?" The old man leaned forward sharply. "He's written at last, eh? Read it!"
"You don't want to finish the matter of the will, then?"
"That can wait! Read what the cub says," with an impatient gesture. "First letter in all these weeks. What th' devil's he up to?"
Rowe's fingers were unsteady as they tore open the envelope and rattled the creases from the paper. He read aloud.
"Dear Father: It has been nearly a month since I left you to take up this job and I have not written for two reasons. First, I have been very busy learning necessary things; secondly, I've had nothing definite to tell you."
Rowe paused, and his face lost color.
"Go on," said Luke.
"Today, the first two cars of maple started rolling. They go to Bender of Detroit at $76 for No. 2 Common
