At first glance, Carnac saw that John Grier was getting worn and old.
The eyes were not so flashing as they once were; the lips were curled in
a half-cynical mood. The old look of activity was fading; something
vital had struck soul and body. He had had a great year. He had fought
Belloc and his son Fabian successfully; he had laid new plans and
strengthened his position.

Tarboe coming into the business had made all the difference to him.
Tarboe had imagination, skill and decision, he seldom lost his temper; he
kept a strong hand upon himself. His control of men was marvellous; his
knowledge of finance was instinctive; his capacity for organization was
rare, and he had health unbounded and serene. It was hard to tell what
were the principles controlling Tarboe--there was always an element of
suspicion in his brown and brilliant eyes. Yet he loved work. The wind
of energy seemed to blow through his careless hair. His hands were like
iron and steel; his lips were quick and friendly, or ruthless, as seemed
needed. To John Grier's eyes he was the epitome of civilization--the
warrior without a soul.

When Carnac came in now with the statue tucked under his arm, smiling and
self-contained, it seemed as though something had been done by Fate to
flaunt John Grier.

With a nod, Carnac put the statue on the table in front of the old man,
and said: "It's all right, isn't it? I've lifted that out of the river-
life. That's one of the best men you ever had, and he's only one of a
thousand. He doesn't belong anywhere. He's a rover, an adventurer, a
wanton of the waters. Look at him. He's all right, isn't he?" He asked
this again.