He was right.  The problem of business is, in its two main factors, perfectly simple—­to make a wanted article, and to put it where those who want it can buy.  But this was not Arthur Ranger’s problem, nor is it the problem of most business men in our time.  Between maker and customer, nowadays, lie the brigands who control the railways—­that is, the highways; and they with equal facility use or defy the law, according to their needs.  When Arthur went a-buying grain or stave timber, he and those with whom he was trading had to placate the brigands before they could trade; when he went a-selling flour, he had to fight his way to the markets through the brigands.  It was the battle which causes more than ninety out of every hundred in independent business to fail—­and of the remaining ten, how many succeed only because they either escaped the notice of the brigands or compromised with them?

“I wish you luck,” said Jenkins, when, at the end of two weeks of his tutelage, Arthur told him he would try it alone.

Arthur laughed.  “No, you don’t, Jenkins,” replied he, with good-humored bluntness.  “But I’m going to have it, all the same.”

Discriminating prices and freight rates against his grain, discriminating freight rates against his flour; the courts either powerless to aid him or under the rule of bandits; and, on the top of all, a strike within two weeks after Jenkins left—­such was the situation.  Arthur thought it hopeless; but he did not lose courage nor his front of serenity, even when alone with Madelene.  Each was careful not to tempt the malice of fate by concealments; each was careful also not to annoy the other with unnecessary disagreeable recitals.  If he could have seen where good advice could possibly help him, he would have laid all his troubles before her; but it seemed to him that to ask her advice would be as if she were to ask him to tell her how to put life into a corpse.  He imagined that she was deceived by his silence about the details of his affairs because she gave no sign, did not even ask questions beyond generalities.  She, however, was always watching his handsome face with its fascinating evidences of power inwardly developing; and, as it was her habit to get valuable information as to what was going on inside her fellow-beings from a close study of surface appearances, the growing gauntness of his features, the coming out of the lines of sternness, did not escape her, made her heart throb with pride even as it ached with sympathy and anxiety.  At last she decided for speech.

He was sitting in their dressing room, smoking his last cigarette as he watched her braid her wonderful hair for the night.  She, observing him in the glass, saw that he was looking at her with that yearning for sympathy which is always at its strongest in a man in the mood that was his at sight of those waves and showers of soft black hair on the pallid whiteness of her shoulders.  Before he realized what she was about she was in his lap, her arms round his neck, his face pillowed against her cheek and her hair.  “What is it, little boy?” she murmured, with that mingling of the mistress and the mother which every woman who ever loved feels for and, at certain times, shows the man she loves.