He went about his business circumspectly, without loss of time.  He leased a good location, wired the factory to ship at once, began a modest advertising campaign in the local papers, and as a business coup collared—­at a fat salary and liberal commission—­the best salesman on the staff of the concern doing the biggest motor-car business in town.  Thompson had learned certain business lessons well.  He had perceived long since that it was a cutthroat game when competition grew keen.  And this matter of the salesman was his first blood in that line.  The man brought with him a list of prospects as long as his arm, and a wide acquaintance in the town, both assets of exceeding value.  Altogether Thompson got off to a flying start.  The arrangement whereby Henderson consigned cars to him enabled him to concentrate all his small capital on a sales campaign.  He paid freight and duty.  His cars he paid for when they were sold—­and the discount was his profit.

When his salesroom was formally opened to the public, with five Summits on the floor and twice as many en route, when his undertaking and his car models had received the unqualified approval of a surprising number of callers, Thompson left the place to his salesman and went to see Sophie Carr.

That was a visit born of sudden impulse, a desire to talk about something besides automobiles and making money.  But Sophie was out.  Her father, however, made him welcome, supplementing his welcome with red wine that carried a kick.  Thompson sat down before a fireplace, glass in hand, stretched his feet to the fire, and listened to his host talk.

“Considering your early handicaps you have certainly shown some speed in adapting yourself to conditions,” Carr observed facetiously.  “There was a time when I didn’t believe you could.  Which shows that even wise men err.  Material factors loom bigger and bigger on your horizon, don’t they?  Don’t let ’em obscure everything though, Thompson.  That’s a blunder plenty of smart men make.  Well, we’ve progressed since Lone Moose days, haven’t we—­the four of us that foregathered there that last summer?”

Thompson smiled.  He liked to hear Carr in a philosophic vein.  And their talk ran thence for an hour.  At the end of which time Sophie came home.

She walked into the room, shook hands with Thompson, flung her coat, hat, and furs across a chair, and drew another up to the crackling fire.  Outside, the long Northern twilight was deepening.  Carr rose and switched on a cluster of lights in frosted globes.  In the mellow glow he resumed his seat, and his glance came to rest upon his daughter with a curious fixity, as if he subtly divined something that troubled her.

“What is it?” he asked, after a minute of unbroken silence.  “You look—­”

“Out of sorts?” she interrupted.  “Showing up poorly as a hostess?”

Her look included Thompson with a faint, impersonal smile, and her gaze went back to the fire.  Sam Carr held his peace, toying with the long-stemmed glass in his hand.