Hanford had not read his friend Lowe awrong, and when, behind locked doors, he outlined his plan, the big fellow gazed at him with amazement, his blue eyes sparkling with admiration.

“Gad!  That appeals to me.  I—­think I can do it.”  There was no timidity in Lowe’s words, merely a careful consideration of the risks involved.

Hanford gripped his hand.  “I’ll attend to Wylie’s clerk,” he declared.  “Now we’d better begin to rehearse.”

“But what makes you so positive you can handle his clerk?” queried Lowe.

“Oh, I’ve studied him the same way I’ve studied you!  I’ve been doing nothing else for the last month.”

“Bli’ me, you’re a corker!” said Mr. Lowe.

* * * * *

Back in Newark, New Jersey, Jackson Wylie, Sr., was growing impatient.  In spite of his son’s weekly reports he had begun to fret at the indefinite nature of results up to date.  This dissatisfaction it was that had induced him to cable his invitation to the Royal Commission to visit the Atlantic plant.  Mr. Jackson Wylie, Sr., had a mysterious way of closing contracts once he came in personal contact with the proper people.  In the words of his envious competitors, he had “good terminal facilities,” and he felt sure in his own mind that he could get this job if only he could meet some member of that Commission who possessed the power to act.  Business was bad, and in view of his son’s preliminary reports he had relied upon the certainty of securing this tremendous contract; he had even turned work away so that his plant might be ready for the rush, with the result that many of his men now were idle and that he was running far below capacity.  But he likewise had his eye upon those English bonuses, and when his associates rather timidly called his attention to the present state of affairs he assured them bitingly that he knew his business.  Nevertheless, he could not help chafing at delay nor longing for the time to come to submit the bid that had lain for a month upon his desk.  The magnitude of the figures contained therein was getting on Mr. Wylie’s nerves.

On the tenth of May he received a cablegram in his own official cipher which, translated, read: 

Meet Sir Thomas Drummond, Chairman Royal Barrata Bridge Commission, arriving Cunard Liner Campania, thirteenth, stopping Waldorf.  Arrange personally Barrata contract.  Caution.

The cablegram was unsigned, but its address, “Atwylie,” betrayed not only its destination, but also the identity of its sender.  Mr. Jackson Wylie, Sr., became tremendously excited.  The last word conjured up bewildering possibilities.  He was about to consult his associates when it struck him that the greatest caution he could possibly observe would consist of holding his own tongue now and henceforth.  They had seen fit to criticize his handling of the matter thus far; he decided he would play safe and say nothing until he had first seen Sir Thomas Drummond and learned the lay of the land.  He imagined he might then have something electrifying to tell them.  He had “dealt from the bottom” too often, he had closed too many bridge contracts in his time, to mistake the meaning of this visit, or of that last word “caution.”