had gratitude enough, on account of the money he would have made them, to stand by him now against the overshadowing figure of the trust.
But there was Mumford entering—an old man, much older than he had looked seven years ago, and he was sixty then—and George could not but be polite to an old man. He arose and turned to greet him, though he could not help shooting a hard look, a look that was almost accusation.
But Mumford's contenance, pink under white hair, bore no trace of guilt upon it. In fact, he smiled and seemed rather pleased with himself, whereat George, inevitably yielding to that amiable, self-satisfied radiance, hailed him by name and extended a cordial hand. But what Mr. Mumford proffered was not a hand to be shaken; it was a hand that submitted to the gaze of George Judson an oblong piece of paper with both printing and writing upon it. George inclined his head forward slightly and let his glance rest upon it with that indifference with which any man who had just lost a vast pile of concrete and steel, filled with throbbing machinery and potential with a mighty manufacturing volume, might be expected to look upon a mere slip of paper.
But suddenly his listless glance lighted; he snatched at the slip and read it. "Mumford!" he exclaimed with a startled, questioning eye.
