"Is that still the way you feel, Jim?" asked Standley from his end of the table.
"Yes, it is; how about it, gentlemen?" answered Ackerman's deep voice.
His eyes turned from one to the other, and found no dissent, although the air of each man was earnest, almost somber.
"Shake hands, then!" called out the bearded man with enthusiasm, a man who had swayed millions by the force of his own convictions before that time.
"Let's all shake hands, then, gentlemen," said John Rawn.
They did so, each man reaching out his hands to his neighbor; Halsey, of course, stepping back as not belonging to that charmed circle. They made a ring around that table of countless, untold millions, of uncounted, unmeasured power. Their faces would have made study sufficient for the greatest painter of the world. There was not a young man present, not one whose face did not show lines deep graven, whose hair was not white, or gray, or grizzled. Many faces there were, but from the eyes of each shone the same light. The grasp of the hand of each meant the same thing. They stood, hand clasped to hand, soul clasped to soul; greed and power clasped to greed and power.
"Move we 'journ," said Ackerman. The president dropped the gavel on the table top.
VI
Rawn finally escaping from the crowd of importunate reporters who waited in the halls, at length broke away to go to his rooms. He met Halsey in the lobby. The latter had in his hand a telegram, which shook somewhat as he extended it.
"Well," said Rawn, turning toward him with a frown, "what is it?"