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N A little office, in one of lower Manhattan's office-towers, a mouse-brown man sat over a big desk: a little man of big affairs, sole steward of one of America's most formidable fortunes.

At precisely the instant when Alan Law catapulted over the edge of a cliff in northern Maine the signal of the little man's telephone clicked, and, lifting receiver to ear, he nodded with a smile and said, "Ask her to come in at once, please." Jumping up, he placed a chair, the door opened, and a young woman entered.

The mouse-brown man bowed. "Miss Rose Trine?" he murmured.

The young woman returned his bow: "Mr. Digby?"

"You are kind to come in response to my—ah—unconventional invitation," said the little man. "Won't you—ah—sit down?"

She said, "Thank you," gravely, and took the chair he indicated.

"If you will permit me to say so," he said dif- 36