At this the light in the gray eyes flamed fiercely, and the ex-cattle-king took the two strides needful to place him before McVickar.

“Don’t you try that, McVickar; I give you fair warning!” he grated, his deep-toned voice rumbling like the burr of grinding wheels.  “There’s only one way you could do it, and—­”

The vice-president stood up and reached for his hat.

“And you’ll take precious good care that I don’t get a chance to try that way, you were going to say.  All right, David; you tell me to do my damnedest, and I’ll hand that back to you, too.  You do the same, and we’ll see who comes out ahead.”

The vice-president caught an elevator at the end of his leisurely progress down the corridor, and had himself lowered to the lobby.  The electric lights were glowing, and the great gathering-place was beginning to take on its evening stir.  Mr. Hardwick McVickar pushed his way to the desk, and a row of lately arrived guests waited while he asked his question.

“Where shall I be most likely to find Mr. Evan Blount at this time of day?” he demanded; and the obliging clerk made the guest-line wait still longer while he summoned a bell-boy and sent him scurrying over to one of the writing-tables.

“This is Mr. Evan Blount,” said the clerk, indicating the young man who came up with the returning bell-boy.  “Mr. Blount, this is Mr. Hardwick McVickar, first vice-president of the Transcontinental Railway Company.”

There was no trace of the recent battle in Mr. McVickar’s voice or manner when he shook hands cordially with the son of the man who had so lately defied him.

“Your father and I were just now holding a little conference over your future prospects, Mr. Blount,” he said, going straight to his point.  “Suppose you come down to the car with me for a private talk on legal matters.  I’m inclined to think that we shall wish to retain you in a cause which is coming up in September.  Gantry tells me that you are pretty well up in corporation law.  Can you spare me a half-hour or so?”

Evan Blount glanced at the big clock over the clerk’s head.  Patricia had told him that she and her father would dine in the cafe at seven, and that there would be a place at their table for him—­and another for his father, if the ex-senator would so far honor a poor college professor.  There was an hour to spare; and if the vice-president of the Transcontinental was not the king, he was at least a great man, and one whose invitation was in some sense a royal command.

“Certainly, I’ll be glad to go with you,” was Blount’s acquiescent rejoinder.  So much the registry-clerk heard; and he saw, between jabs with his pen, the straight path to the revolving doors of the portal ploughed by the big man with young Blount at his elbow.

One minute after the spinning doors had engulfed the pair the registry-clerk was called on the house telephone.  A sad-faced tourist who was waiting patiently for his room assignment heard only the answer to the question which came over the wire from one of the upper floors:  “No, Senator, Mr. Evan is not here; he has just this moment gone out—­with Mr. McVickar.  Could I overtake him?  I’ll try; but I don’t know where they were going.  Yes; all right.  I’ll send a boy right away.”