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 away with him. As he drove, the doctor—mind relaxed of professional responsibility—talked about automobiles in general and the Milton Morris in particular—talked about it and inquired about it—but for once young Mr. Judson was a rather indifferent advocate of automobiles.

"All right," he muttered to himself when the doctor had left him, in such tones of graveyard hollowness as indicated that things were a million miles from being, as he said, all right. "AI right. Let's admit it. She doesn't remember me. I don't mean anything to her now, but I will—later. By jumping Jeminy, I will!"

Next morning Milton Morris was sitting bowed at his desk. "Hello, George!" he hailed. "How are you getting on with that loan?"

"I'm not getting on, Mr. Morris," admitted the young man hollowly and passed on to his own modest desk in the same room.

The older man gazed across at the hunched shoulders of the younger with affection in his glance. It had taken only eight weeks for that affection to grow. It had its root in the fact that Judson was the first employee who had ever manifested more faith in the business than its owner had in it himself.

"And you won't get on with it, either, George," said Mr. Morris consolingly. "The idea's too new—too uncertain. I let you run