There was something tremendously purposeful in the poise of the man’s body as he sat at one of the many writing tables scattered about the smoking lounge.  There were few passers-by who did not glance a second time in his direction with that curiosity which is unfailing in human nature at sight of an unusual specimen of their kind.

Twice a name was called by a uniformed boy in that unintelligible fashion which seems to be the habit of his species.  The boy hovered round.  Then he came up behind the chair on which Bull was seated and hurled his final challenge.

“Sternford, sir?” he asked curtly.

His victim turned.

“Yes.”

“Wanted on the ’phone, sir.”

The boy was gone on the run.  He had hunted his quarry down.  There were still fresh victories to be achieved.

* * * * *

Bull was at the ’phone, and his eyes were smiling at an insurance advertisement set up for the edification and interest of those whose use of the instrument prevented their escape.

“Yes.  Oh, yes.  Got in this morning.  What’s that?  Oh, pretty rough.  Yes.  It’s a bad sea most all the time.  Why, that’s good of you, Mr. Peterman.”  His smile broadened.  “Yes.  You sent an excellent ambassador.  A charming girl.  Well, there’s no time like the present.  Yes.  I’ve lunched.  I’m just through with my mail.  Four o’clock would suit me admirably.  Why sure I’d like to.  All right.  G’bye.”

He stood for a moment after replacing the receiver.  Then, becoming aware of another wanting to use the instrument, he moved away.

Returning to the smoking lounge he finished off his correspondence and took possession of one of the couches and lit a cigar.

For a time the hang-over of business pre-occupied him.  But it was not for long.  His whole thought swiftly became absorbed in Nancy McDonald, with her wonderful halo of vivid hair.  It had been the same during the whole of his journey down from Sachigo, in fact, from the moment he had first set eyes on her when she entered his office on that memorable day of her visit.  She pre-occupied all his leisure.

He had thought deeply on the meaning of her visit to him, and his thought had had little to do with the mission she had come upon.  Swift decision had dealt with that.  No, it was the girl herself who claimed him.

He understood the sheer design of the Skandinavia in sending so perfect a creature to him.  That was easy.  It only helped to prove their desire—­their urgent desire—­to free themselves from the threat of his competition.  But he wondered at their selection.

Somehow he felt that the Skandinavia should have chosen, if their choice fell upon a woman, a clever, brilliant, unscrupulous creature who knew her every asset, and was capable of playing every one of them in the game of commercial warfare.  Instead of that they had sent Nancy, with her sweetly beautiful face and perfect hair, to be their unthinking tool.  He realised her simplicity, her splendid loyalty to those she served.  He knew she was without design or subterfuge.  She was just the most beautiful, desirable creature he had ever beheld in his life.