Late that same night, Stephen Hawk was keeping a rather discomforting vigil with a visitor in the best suite of rooms the Mid-Continent Hotel in Gaston afforded.  The guest of honor was a brother lawyer—­though he might have refused to acknowledge the relationship with the ex-district attorney—­a keen-eyed, business-like gentleman, whose name as an organizer of vast capitalistic ventures had traveled far, and whose present attitude was one of undisguised and angry contempt for Gaston and all things Gastonian.

“How much longer have we to wait?” he demanded impatiently, when the hands of his watch pointed to the quarter-hour after ten.  “You’ve made me travel two thousand miles to see this thing through:  why didn’t you make sure of having your man here?”

Hawk wriggled uneasily in his chair.  He was used to being bullied, not only by the good and great, but by the little and evil as well.  Yet there was a rasp to the great man’s impatience that irritated him.

“I’ve been trying to tell you all the evening that I’m only the hired man in this business, Mr. Falkland.  I can’t compel the attendance of the other parties.”

“Well, it’s damned badly managed, as far as we’ve gone,” was the ungracious comment.  “You say the judge refuses to confer with me?”

“Ab-so-lutely.”

“And the train—­the last train the other man can come on; is that in yet?”

Hawk consulted his watch.

“A good half-hour ago.”

“You had your clerk at the station to meet it?”

“I did.”

“And he hasn’t reported?”

“Not yet.”

Falkland took a cigar from his case, bit the end of it like a man with a grudge to satisfy, and began again.

“There is a very unbusinesslike mystery about all this, Mr. Hawk, and I may as well tell you shortly that my time is too valuable to make me tolerant of half-confidences.  Get to the bottom of it.  Has your man weakened?”

“No; he is not of the weakening kind.  And, besides, the scheme is his own from start to finish, as you know.”

“Well, what is the matter, then?”

Hawk rose.

“If you will be patient a little while longer, I’ll go to the wire and try to find out.  I am as much in the dark as you are.”

This last was not strictly true.  Hawk had a telegram in his pocket which was causing him more uneasiness than all the rasping criticisms of the New York attorney, and he was re-reading it by the light of the corridor bracket when a young man sprang from the ascending elevator and hurried to the door of the parlor suite.  Hawk collared his Mercury before he could rap on the door.

“Well?” he queried sharply.

“It’s just as you suspected—­what Mr. Hendricks’ telegram hinted at.  I met him at the station and couldn’t do a thing with him.”

“Where has he gone?”

“To the same old place.”

“You followed him?”