"What's this?" he said, grinning. "Looks like old times to see you three together."
Filmer had a sudden thought. "Do any of you chaps remember what anniversary this is?"
The others searched their brains and gave it up.
"Seven years ago to-night there was a certain notable meeting in the town hall."
"And now there's one in the corner. We've come down in the world," put in Dibbott.
"Possibly, but possibly not. I was just thinking of all that has happened in seven years. It should prevent us from getting rattled." The mayor turned to Bowers, "Seen Clark to-day?"
"Haven't seen or heard of him for three days," answered the lawyer shortly—then, because he wanted to avoid being pumped, "good night—I'm for my blameless couch."
They looked after him and at each other. "Seen Belding?" asked Dibbott of the judge.
"No, he's down in Chicago. I think he's buying machinery. Now it's late and if I don't go home too, I'll get into trouble." He turned towards the old house by the river, and halted a few steps off. "Good night, you fellows, I feel better."
Thus it came that while a brooding, gray eyed man paced his terrace with his eyes fixed on the far white line of the rapids, whose call was indistinguishable at this distance, there was spreading almost under the shadow of the works a novel spirit of confidence in himself and his vast enterprise. It was not till a sudden question arose, that St. Marys realized the prodigious meaning of their new city and how lavishly all Clark's promises had been redeemed. In the hour of anxiety they leaned on him more than ever before. This new birth—this upholding trust—was conceived at the very moment when Wimperley and the others were gathered in harassed counsel, and through Philadelphia and the surrounding state was broadening a dark cloud of rumor that carried swift fear to thousands of hearts. But it was not fear that came to the keen brain of Henry Marsham.