“You are mistaken, Whitney,” replied the doctor.  “Hampden’s views are sound.  He is misrepresented by the highly placed rascals he has exposed and dislodged.  But in these business matters we rely upon you.”  He linked his arm affectionately in that of the powerful and successful “captain of industry” whom he had known from boyhood.  “I know how devoted you are to Tecumseh, and how ably you manage practical affairs; and I have not for a moment lost confidence that you will bring us safely through.”

Whitney’s face was interesting.  There was a certain hangdog look in it, but there was also a suggestion—­very covert—­of cynical amusement, as of a good player’s jeer at a blunder by his opponent.  His tone, however, was melancholy, tinged with just resentment, as he said:  “Scarborough forgets how my own personal interest is involved.  I don’t like to lose two hundred and odd thousand a year.”

“Scarborough meant nothing, I’m sure,” said Hargrave soothingly.  “He knows we are all single hearted for the university.”

“I don’t like to be distrusted,” persisted Whitney sadly.  Then brightening:  “But you and I understand each other, doctor.  And we will carry the business through.  Every man who tries to do anything in this world must expect to be misunderstood.”

“You are mistaken about Scarborough, I know you are,” said Hargrave earnestly.

Whitney listened to Hargrave, finally professed to be reassured; but, before he left, a strong doubt of Scarborough’s judgment had been implanted by him in the mind of the old doctor.  That was easy enough; for, while Hargrave was too acute a man to give his trust impulsively, he gave without reserve when he did give—­and he believed in Charles Whitney.  The ability absolutely to trust where trust is necessary is as essential to effective character as is the ability to withhold trust until its wisdom has been justified; and exceptions only confirm a rule.

Scarborough, feeling that he had been neglecting his trusteeship, now devoted himself to the Ranger-Whitney Company.

He had long consultations with Howells, and studied the daily and weekly balance sheets which Howells sent him.  In the second month after the annual meeting he cabled Dory to come home.  The entire foundation upon which Dory was building seemed to be going; Saint X was, therefore, the place for him, not Europe.

“And there you have all I have been able to find out,” concluded Scarborough, when he had given Dory the last of the facts and figures.  “What do you make of it?”

“There’s something wrong—­something rotten,” replied Dory.

“But where?” inquired Scarborough, who had taken care not to speak or hint his vague doubts of Whitney.  “Everything looks all right, except the totals on the balance sheets.”

“We must talk this over with some one who knows more about the business than either of us.”  Then he added, as if the idea had just come to him, “Why not call in Arthur—­Arthur Ranger?”