The Deacon's office was plainly furnished. He was seated at an
old-fashioned mahogany desk, evidently a relic of his Knickerbocker
past. Born in New York sixty years before, he was popularly reckoned
a multimillionaire, though his wealth was overestimated. Compared
to the big-brained, eagle-eyed men who had come from the West and
mastered Wall Street, Van Meter was really a pygmy.

He greeted Gordon politely.

"Delighted to welcome you, Doctor, to my office. This is the first
call you have ever honoured me with downtown."

"I've been to your home often, Deacon."

"But somehow you've always been shy of Wall Street," said Van Meter,
expansively. "I suppose you look on us down here somewhat as the
old-time preacher regarded the saloon-keeper. You should know us
better. This alley is the jugular vein of the nation, and the Stock
Exchange its heart. We have a President and Congress at Washington,
and some very handsome buildings there. It is supposed to be the
capital of the republic. A political myth! Here is the capital. The
money centre is the seat of government. The Southern Confederacy
failed, not for lack of soldiers or generals of military genius,
but because it had no money."

Van Meter's stature grew taller and his eyes larger as Gordon felt
the truth of his words.

"Well, Deacon, I wish to know you better. I'm afraid I've not always