“Yes, yes, I know about all that.”  A sudden change of mood brought a twinkle to the financier’s eyes.  “My father has been under very heavy expenses of late, Carl.  If you had known him as I knew him—­back there close to ‘God’s immortal granite,’ as you so aptly phrased it, you would agree with me that the humor of the situation is worth whatever it costs.  He had to count the pennies, Carl, and when one threatened to get away he had to chase around it and head it off.  He led the simple life and though his middle name was Standish, he regarded it as a sinful vanity to think of his ancestors.”

Hamilton’s smile was one of whimsical and naive humor as he fished from a desk drawer a thick sheaf of papers and laid them before the other.

“Times have changed.  Cast your eye on those.  They represent some of the Governor’s expenses.  They are bills from the Anglo-Saxon Bureau of Genealogy.”

“What is this bureau?” inquired Carl, and Burton raised his brows.

“Don’t you know?  Why, it’s a concern that outfits one with a full line of ancestors.  My father is now prominent in many orders predicated on ancestors.  His mail runs over with epistles beginning, ’Dear Sir and Compatriot.’  Such excavating of tombs and catacombs is costly.”  The young money baron paused and grinned.

“Once the old gentleman got warmed up, he went the full route and took all the jumps, Carl.  He started out modestly enough to establish his descent from Miles Standish, but when they had run the Plymouth captain to earth, the trail was hot and their appetites were whetted.  They had tasted blue blood.  Now they’ve worked back to a king or two, and the Governor spoke recently of going to England to consult cathedral records.  I believe he secretly covets William the Conqueror.”

Hamilton shook his head and added sadly, “I hate to think how Corbin will grieve when he learns what William the Conqueror costs.  Also, father has a beautiful family crest—­you may have noticed it on his walking stick.  I haven’t yet mastered the niceties of heraldry so I can’t properly describe it, but, to me, it looks like a rabbit leaping over an Edam cheese with sprigs of lettuce on either side.  A delicatessen shop will steal it some day and father’s heart will break.”

Carl Bristoll filled and lighted a pipe and Hamilton Burton seated himself on the edge of the desk with his eyes fixed on a swinging foot.

“We all have our vanities,” he mused.  “I named myself Montagu—­arbitrarily and of my own unbiased will.  I nominated and elected myself a Montagu, Carl, and I had an equal right to be a Capulet.”

“I call that a moderately innocent offense,” admitted the secretary.  There were moments when these two came near forgetting the relationship of chief and lieutenant, meeting on the level of a joint affection.

“But that is not all.  My father has other even more burdensome expenses at the present time,” continued the elder young man.  “He is deeply interested in charity.”