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 a broker," Luke said dryly. "He had some margins to protect; he's playing one New York stock and one local—U. S. steel and Union Carbide, I believe." He paused meditatively.

"Well," Lucas questioned after a minute, "what did you do?"

"To his margins? Protected them," Luke informed quietly. "I was thinking—" he began to explain the connection of this topic of Miss Platt's husband with their previous conversation.

"I understand what you were thinking," his father said. Nevertheless the son explained:

"I'd like to be sure that any one we engaged to observe the occupations of my niece did not have brokers. It is quite enough to have Kincheloe call up our office and tell Slawson to protect a margin for him—quick!" Slawson Luke's personal secretary; but Slawson was no Miss Platt, and Luke preferred the man to know as little as possible about his private affairs. "I don't care for it, father," Luke said.

"Damn!" Lucas jerked, standing up. "He said that, did he? Quick?"

"He said that since I was not in the office—I wasn't—that Slawson could find me on the 'phone right away and learn it would be all right."

"Well, did he find you?"

"Yes."

"And you told him it would be all right?"

"Yes."

"Don't do it again!" Lucas brought his first down upon a table top. "Tell him to go to hell—to hell—to hell!" the old man shouted violently. "Tell Slawson to tell him that. Tell everybody! What would