Throughout the afternoon he remained at his desk, transacting the routine of the mills with the same calm demeanor that always characterized his dealings with the foremen. But when alone his head would drop in his hands as he again tested every link in the chain that was holding him down.
“With never a failure against his record, to think Abner must fail now,” he muttered. Then in self-accusation, “But I was a fool, a fool. Why didn’t I move more cautiously? When Carlton could find nothing I should have known Whitten couldn’t, unless by some miracle. And he has failed.”
A step at the door caused him to spring up and smooth out his features. The door opened and in walked Roscoe W. Thaxter, multi-millionaire and president of the Great Northern.
“Hello, Hatton, glad to see you,” cordially greeted Thaxter, helping himself to a chair. “We must get down to business, as I have an automobile outside to take me back to my private car where I shall sleep to-night. What about this pipe line for pulp?” And the president pulled out a memorandum and studied it critically.
“Mr. Thaxter, that was an idea given me by a
