a somewhat better chance there, apparently, for he had at one time known one of the trustees quite well.  For that very reason he had put it off until the last, for he dreaded meeting an old acquaintance, and, too, there was a chance, though not a very good one, that the acquaintance might work harm instead of advantage.  Still, the trustee had been in Europe for several years past, and the chances were that he would know nothing derogatory to Carroll which would interfere with his obtaining the position.

He reached the building, took the elevator to the floor on which was situated the offices, and, curiously enough, the first person he saw, on emerging from the elevator, was the man whom he knew, waiting to ascend.  The man, whose name was Fowler, recognized him at once, and greeted him, but with constraint.  Carroll immediately understood that in some unforeseen way the news which travels in circles in this small world had reached the other.  He saw that he knew of his record during the last years.

“I have not seen you for a number of years, Mr. Carroll,” said Fowler.

“No,” replied Carroll, trying to speak coolly, “but that is easily accounted for; you have been abroad most of the time, living in London, have you not?”

“Yes, for seven years,” replied the other, “but now I am home in my native land to end my days.”  Fowler was quite an elderly man, and remarkably distinguished in appearance, clean-featured and white-haired—­indeed, he had cut quite a considerable figure in certain circles on the other side.  He was even taller than Carroll, and portly in spite of the sharpness of his features.

“You are glad to be back in America?” Carroll said; he was almost forgetting, for the moment, the object of his visit to the place.  He had years ago been on terms of social intimacy with this man.

“If I were not I would not say so,” replied Fowler, with a diplomatic smile.  “I do not disparage my country nor give another the preference in my speech, until I deliberately take out naturalization papers elsewhere.”

Carroll smiled.

“By-the-way,” said Fowler, whose handsome face had hard lines which appeared from time to time from beneath his polished surface-urbanity, “I have not seen you for perhaps ten years, Mr. Carroll, but I heard from you in an out-of-the-way place—­that is, if anything is out of the way in these days.  It was in a little Arab village in Egypt.  I was going down the Nile with a party, and something went wrong with the boat and we had to stop for repairs; and there I found—­quartered in a most amazing studio which he had rigged up for himself out of a native hut and hung with things which looked to me like nightmares, and making studies of the native Egyptians—­and I must say he seemed to be doing some fine work at last—­Evan Dodge.”

Carroll understood then, perfectly, but he took it calmly.  “I always felt that Dodge had genuine ability,” he said.