“One other word, Mr. Brewster,” Ford begged, as the copper magnate was pointing for the door of escape.  “Please don’t let any of these timid gentlemen sell till we get our bonds floated.  You mark my word:  the temptation to make a big killing is going to be very great, within a week.”

The copper king laughed; openly, this time.

“You overrate my influence, Mr. Ford; but I’ll do what I can—­by word of mouth and by example.  You can count on me—­as long as you let me stay on your side of the market.”

Ford had three several invitations to luncheon after the meeting adjourned, but he accepted none of them.  To Adair he made the declination courteous while they were trundling back to the Waldorf in the big touring car.

“I have lost an entire day because I could not take the time to secure a stenographer before leaving Chicago night before last.  I must find one now and go to work.”

“All right; if you must.  But I was hoping I could take you out to Overlook to dinner this evening.  Can’t you come anyhow, and take a later train west?”

“Don’t tempt me,” said Ford.  And then:  “The ladies are quite well, I hope?”

“Oh, yes; they are in town to-day, and we are all going to luncheon together—­though I shan’t know just where until I go to the club.  Failing the dinner, won’t you make a knife and fork with us at one o’clock?”

“I should like to—­more than anything else in the world,” Ford protested, meaning it.  “But you’ll make my excuses to Mrs. Adair, won’t you?  We’ve simply got to get a three-cornered hustle on now, if we want to save the day in the West.”

“Why?  Is there anything new in that quarter?”

“There is:  something that I didn’t dare to mention back yonder in the board meeting.  You may remember that I told you I had left a man in my place on the Plug Mountain—­Frisbie?  I had a wire from him, night before last, just as I was leaving Chicago.  As you know, the Pacific Southwestern inherits, from the old narrow-gauge purchase, the right-of-way over Plug Pass and down the valley of the Pannikin.  Frisbie wires that the Transcontinental people have begun massing building material at the terminus of their Saguache branch, only twenty miles from the Pass.”

“And that means?—­I’m lame on geography.”

“It means that they’ll cut in ahead of us, if they can.  Plug Pass is the only available unoccupied outlet through the mountains for thirty or forty miles north or south; and if we don’t get our building force on the ground mighty suddenly, we’ll find it fortified and held by the enemy.”

The touring car had turned into Broadway, and the traffic roar precluded further talk.  But when Ford was dismounting from the tonneau at the entrance to his hotel, Adair said:  “There appears to be no rest for the wicked.  You ought to have some of that thirty million dollars to spend right now.”

Ford’s smile was little more than a sardonic grin.