his work. Having at the age of thirty, through a great deal of luck
and a touch of accident, secured his place, he possessed, at least,
sufficient dignity to fill it.

He was one of those rare men who carry their dignity with them past
the doors of their homes. Robert Macklin's home, during the short
intervals when he was off the trains, was in a tiny apartment. It was
really one not overly large room, with a little alcove adjoining; but
Robert Macklin had seized the opportunity to hang a curtain across
the alcove, and, since it was large enough to contain a chair and a
bookshelf, he referred to it always as his "library."

He was this morning seated in his library, with his feet protruding
through the curtains and resting on the foot of his bed, when the
doorbell rang. He surveyed himself in his mirror before he answered
it. Having decided that, in his long dressing gown, he was imposing
enough, he advanced to the door and slowly opened it.

He saw before him two sun-darkened men whose soft gray hats proclaimed
that they were newly come out of the West. The one was a fellow whose
face had been made stern by hard work and few pleasures in life. The
other was one who, apparently, had never worked at all. There was
something about him that impressed Robert Macklin. He might be a young
Western millionaire, for instance. Aside from his hat he was dressed
with elaborate care. He wore gray spats, and his clothes were
obviously well tailored, and his necktie was done in a bow. On the
whole he was a very cool, comfortable looking chap. The handkerchief,
which protruded from his breast pocket and showed an edging of red,
was a trifle noisy; and the soft gray hat was hardly in keeping, but,
on the whole, he was a dashing-looking chap. The bagging trousers