“H-mm,” observed Mr. Cressy.  “I am rather glad to hear all this.  You see it happens that I came to Dunbury to offer Philip Lambert a position.  My name’s Cressy—­Harrison Cressy,” he explained.

His companion lifted his eye-brows a little dubiously.

“I see.  I didn’t know I was discussing a young man you knew well enough to offer a position to.  May I ask if he accepted it?” “He did not,” admitted Harrison Cressy grimly.

“Turned it down, eh?” The school man looked interested.

“Turned it down, man?  He made the proposition look flatter than a last year’s pan-cake and it was a mighty good proposition.  At least I thought it was,” the magnate added with a faint grin remembering all that went with that proposition.

Robert Caldwell smiled.  He rather liked the idea of one of his boys making a proposition of millionaire Cressy’s look like a last year’s pan-cake.  It was what he would have expected of Phil Lambert.

“I am sorry for you, Mr. Cressy,” he said.  “But I am glad for Dunbury.  Philip is the kind we need right here.”

“He is the kind we need right everywhere,” grunted Mr. Cressy.  “Only we can’t get ’em.  They aren’t for sale.”

“No,” agreed Robert Caldwell.  “They are not for sale.  Ah, the Boston train must be in.  There is the stage.”

Mr. Cressy allowed his eyes to stray idly to the arriving bus and the descending passengers.

Suddenly he stiffened.

“Good Lord!” he ejaculated, an exclamation called forth by the fact that the last person to alight from the bus was a slim young person in a trim, tailored, navy blue suit and a tiny black velvet toque whose air bespoke Paris, a person with eyes which were precisely the color of violets which grow in the deepest woods.

A little later Harrison Cressy sat in a deep leather upholstered chair in his bedroom with his daughter Carlotta in his lap.

“Don’t try to deceive me, Daddy darling,” Carlotta was saying.  “You were worried—­dreadfully worried because your little Carlotta wept salt tears all over your shirt bosom.  You thought that Carlotta must not be allowed to be unhappy.  Wars, earthquakes, ship sinkings, wrecks—­anything might be allowed to go on as usual but not Carlotta unhappy.  You thought that, didn’t you, Daddy darling?”

Daddy darling pleaded guilty.

“Of course you did, you old dear.  The moment I knew you were in Dunbury I knew what you were up to.  I understand perfectly how your mind works.  I ought to.  Mine works very much the same way.  It is a simple three stage operation.  First we decide we want a thing.  Next we decide the surest, quickest way to get it and third—­we get it.  At least we usually do.  We must do ourselves that much justice, must we not, Daddy darling?”

Daddy darling merely grunted.