They met again at the breakfast-table the following morning, and Ford talked pointedly of everything save the P. S-W. predicament.  One of Adair’s past fads had been the collecting of odd weapons; Ford discovered this and drew the young man skilfully into a discussion of the medieval secrets of sword-tempering.

“I’ve a bit of the old Damascus, myself,” said the engineer.  “Tybee—­he was on the Joppa-Jerusalem road in the building—­picked it up for me.  Curious piece of old steel; figured and flowered and etched and inlaid with silver.  There were jewels in the pommel once, I take it; the settings are still there to show where some practical-turned vandal dug them out.”

Adair was quite at a loss to guess how old swords and their histories could bear upon the financial situation, but he was coming to know Ford better.  Some one has said that it is only the small men who are careful and troubled on the eve of a great battle.  So the talk was of ancient weapons until the time for action arrived; and a smooth-faced gentleman sitting at a near-by table and marked down by Ford—­though not by Ford’s companion—­listened for some word of enlightenment on the railroad situation, and was cruelly disappointed.

“Why wouldn’t you talk?” asked Adair, when they were driving down-town in the young millionaire’s auto.  “Or rather, why did you persist in keeping me to the old swords?”

Ford laughed.

“For one reason, I enjoy the old swords—­as a relaxation.  For another, Mr. Jeffers Hawley, who was once one of the Transcontinental lawyers in Denver, was sitting just behind you, with eager ears.  You didn’t know that.  Hold on a minute; tell your man to stop at the Chemical Bank.  I want you to introduce me to the cashier.”

“Now, what the deuce are you starting a New York bank account for?” queried Adair, as they came out of the bank together and climbed into the tonneau of the waiting touring car.  “Couldn’t you draw on the treasurer?  What’s the use of your being the assistant to the president, I’d like to know?”

“Wait,” was the answer; and the questioner waited, perforce.

The board was already in session when the two young men were admitted to the private room in the rear of the Broad Street offices, and Ford was welcomed as a man who has recklessly steered the ship upon the rocks.  There were even some open recriminations, notably on the part of the president; but Ford sat quietly under them, making no defense, and folding and refolding a slip of paper in his fingers as he listened.

When they gave him leave to speak, he still made no attempt to explain.  Instead, he rose, walked to the other end of the table, and tossed the bit of folded paper across to Mackie, the broker.

“I inherited a little money, and I have made and saved enough more to make it an even twenty thousand dollars,” he said.  “I don’t know of any more promising investment just now than Pacific Southwestern at twenty-nine and a half.  Will you be good enough to buy for my account, Mr. Mackie?”