On the door of apartment 12 was a legend in Old English engraved on a
calling card. It said:


James Cunningham


The visitor pushed the electric bell. Cunningham opened to him.

"Good-evening, Uncle," the younger man said. "Your elevator is not
running, so I walked up. On the way I met a man going down. He seemed
rather in a hurry."

"A cheap blackmailer trying to bold me up. I threw him out."

"Thought he looked put out," answered the younger man, smiling
politely. "I see you still believe in applying direct energy to
difficulties."

"I do. That's why I sent for you." The promoter's cold eyes were
inscrutable. "Come in and shut the door."

The young man sauntered in. He glanced at his uncle curiously from his
sparkling black eyes. What the devil did James, Senior, mean by what
he had said? Was there any particular significance in it?

He stroked his small black mustache. "Glad to oblige you any way I
can, sir."

"Sit down."