Sanders called at the financier’s office and sent in his card by the youthful Cerberus who kept watch at the gate.  The card got no farther than the great man’s private secretary.

After a wait of more than an hour Dave made overtures to the boy.  A dollar passed from him to the youth and established a friendly relation.

“What’s the best way to reach Mr. Graham, son?  I’ve got important business that won’t wait.”

“Dunno.  He’s awful busy.  You ain’t got no appointment.”

“Can you get a note to him?  I’ve got a five-dollar bill for you if you can.”

“I’ll take a whirl at it.  Jus’ ’fore he goes to lunch.”

Dave penciled a line on a card.

If you are not too busy to make $100,000 to-day you had better see me.

He signed his name.

Ten minutes later the office boy caught Graham as he rose to leave for lunch.  The big man read the note.

“What kind of looking fellow is he?” he asked the boy.

“Kinda solemn-lookin’ guy, sir.”  The boy remembered the dollar received on account and the five dollars on the horizon.  “Big, straight-standin’, honest fellow.  From Arizona or Texas, mebbe.  Looked good to me.”

The financier frowned down at the note in doubt, twisting it in his fingers.  A dozen times a week his privacy was assailed by some crazy inventor or crook promoter.  He remembered that he had had a letter from some one about this man.  Something of strength in the chirography of the note in his hand and something of simple directness in the wording decided him to give an interview.

“Show him in,” he said abruptly, and while he waited in the office rated himself for his folly in wasting time.

Underneath bushy brows steel-gray eyes took Dave in shrewdly.

“Well, what is it?” snapped the millionaire.

“The new gusher in the Malapi pool,” answered Sanders at once, and his gaze was as steady as that of the big state-builder.

“You represent the parties that own it?”

“Yes.”

“And you want?”

“Financial backing to put it on its feet until we can market the product.”

“Why don’t you work through your local bank?”

“Another oil man, an enemy of our company, controls the Malapi bank.”

Graham fired question after question at him, crisply, abruptly, and Sanders gave him back straight, short answers.

“Sit down,” ordered the railroad builder, resuming his own seat.  “Tell me the whole story of the company.”

Dave told it, and in the telling he found it necessary to sketch the Crawford-Steelman feud.  He brought himself into the narrative as little as possible, but the grizzled millionaire drew enough from him to set Graham’s eye to sparkling.

“Come back to-morrow at noon,” decided the great man.  “I’ll let you know my decision then.”

The young man knew he was dismissed, but he left the office elated.  Graham had been favorably impressed.  He liked the proposition, believed in its legitimacy and its possibilities.  Dave felt sure he would send an expert to Malapi with him to report on it as an investment.  If so, he would almost certainly agree to put money in it.