Mr. Williams was the village millionaire, patron, and, in a gentlemanly way, “boomer.”  His estate on the Boulevard was the finest in the county, and he, more than any one else, was responsible for the “buying up” by wealthy people from the city of the town’s best building sites, the spots commanding “fine marine sea views,” to quote from Abner Payne, local real estate and insurance agent.  His own estate was fine enough to be talked about from one end of the Cape to the other and he had bought the empty lot opposite and made it into a miniature park, with flower beds and gravel walks, though no one but he or his might pick the flowers or tread the walks.  He had brought on a wealthy friend from New York and a cousin from Chicago, and they, too, had bought acres on the Boulevard and erected palatial “cottages” where once were the houses of country people.  Local cynics suggested that the sign on the East Harniss railroad station should be changed to read “Williamsburg.”  “He owns the place, body and soul,” said they.

As Sim Phinney climbed the hill the magnate, pompous, portly, and imposing, held up a signaling finger.  “Just as if he was hailin’ a horse car,” described Simeon afterward.

“Phinney,” he said, “come here, I want to speak to you.”

The man of many trades obediently approached.

“Good evenin’, Mr. Williams,” he ventured.

“Phinney,” went on the great man briskly, “I want you to give me your figures on a house moving deal.  I have bought a house on the Shore Road, the one that used to belong to the—­er—­Smalleys, I believe.”

Simeon was surprised.  “What, the old Smalley house?” he exclaimed.  “You don’t tell me!”

“Yes, it’s a fine specimen—­so my wife says—­of the pure Colonial, whatever that is, and I intend moving it to the Boulevard.  I want your figures for the job.”

The building mover looked puzzled.  “To the Boulevard?” he said.  “Why, I didn’t know there was a vacant lot on the Boulevard, Mr. Williams.”

“There isn’t now, but there will be soon.  I have got hold of the hundred feet left from the old Seabury estate.”

Mr. Phinney drew a long breath.  “Why!” he stammered, “that’s where Olive Edwards—­her that was Olive Seabury—­lives, ain’t it?”

“Yes,” was the rather impatient answer.  “She has been living there.  But the place was mortgaged up to the handle and—­ahem—­the mortgage is mine now.”

For an instant Simeon did not reply.  He was gazing, not up the Boulevard in the direction of the “Seabury place” but across the slope of the hill toward the home of Captain Sol Berry, the depot master.  There was a troubled look on his face.

“Well?” inquired Williams briskly, “when can you give me the figures?  They must be low, mind.  No country skin games, you understand.”

“Hey?” Phinney came out of his momentary trance.  “Yes, yes, Mr. Williams.  They’ll be low enough.  Times is kind of dull now and I’d like a movin’ job first-rate.  I’ll give ’em to you to-morrer.  But—­but Olive’ll have to move, won’t she?  And where’s she goin’?”