CHAPTER II

WHEREIN, FAR AWAY, ANOTHER MAN HEARS WHISPERS OF THE WEALTH ALONG THE
BORDER, AND COMES DOWN TO SEE ABOUT IT


Up North there was a man with a jaw like a rock, and hard, steel-gray eyes.
He had his fingers on the pulse of business, and employed agents everywhere
to serve his interests. His office in New York, in the heart of the great
financial district, was like a telephone exchange--he the central who
controlled the wires, put in and drew out the plugs, and played the
fascinating game of connecting himself with any "party" he thought worth
while. A shrewd, inveterate gambler, he was without scruples. He lived for
one purpose: to make money. For one person: Morgan Pell.

There had been whispers concerning his methods. They were often
questionable, to say the least; but, like all men who work quietly beneath
the surface of the world of business, Pell covered up his tracks with as
much genius as he displayed in consummating a big deal. There should be no
loose ends if he was ever charged with corruption. Down in his soul he knew
he was a coward. He could not face disgrace, any more than he could face
the guns of battle. If his pillow was not always a restful one at night; if
he tossed more than he should at his age--he was but thirty-eight--no one
knew it. His conscience smote him now and then. In his earlier days he had
tricked a widow and caused her to be separated from her last penny.
Afterwards, he learned she had committed suicide. He shuddered. In fact, he
suffered a little for two long years. Then he forgot about her. Life was
life, and though it played unfairly with some, to others it gave beds of
roses; and after all we were but puppets of fate, and each must take his