vision upon the serrated spire of old Trinity Church, far below. Since
his eyes began to fail, he had cultivated the salutary habit of resting
them every half-hour or so. The action was merely mechanical; his mind
still lingered on the gross earnings of the reorganized L.D. and M.
railroad. It was a sultry afternoon in early fall. The roar of lower
New York came up to him muffled by the haze. The traffic seemed to move
more slowly than usual, as though that haze clogged its wheels and
congealed its oils. The very tugs and barges, on the river beyond,
partook of the season's languor. They crept over the oily waves at a
sluggard pace, their smoke-streamers dropping wearily toward the water.

The eyes of Robert H. Norcross swept this vista for the allotted two
minutes of rest. Presently--and with the very slightest change of
expression--they fixed themselves on a point so far below that he needs
must lean forward and rest his arms on the window sill in order to
look. He wasted thus a minute; and such a wasting, in the case of
Robert H. Norcross, was a considerable matter. The Sunday
newspapers--when in doubt--always played the income of Robert H.
Norcross by periods of months, weeks, days, hours and minutes. Every
minute of his time, their reliable statisticians computed, was worth a
trifle less than forty-seven dollars. Regardless of the waste of time,
he continued to gaze until the watch on his desk had ticked off five
minutes, or two hundred and thirty-five dollars.

The thing which had caught and held his attention was a point in the
churchyard of old Trinity near to the south door.

The Street had been remarking, for a year, that Norcross was growing
old. The change did not show in his operations. His grip on the market
was as firm as ever, his judgment as sure, his imagination as daring,