“I have one now. Try again—for my sake, won’t you?”
“For your sake, I’ll camp on Throckmorton’s trail like a poor relation. What time has your premonition selected?”
“To-morrow at twelve o’clock.”
“Sounds more like lunch than hunch.”
“Send your card in at twelve. Will you?”
“I’ll gamble on you once, Billee. At twelve my card goes in—for your sake. At twelve one I come out, for my own,” he laughed.
“You promise? King, I am really very superstitious.”
“So am I—about you.”
At twelve o’clock next day King handed his card to the red-headed outer guard at Banker Throckmorton’s office. To his everlasting astonishment, the boy smiled genially.
“Come in, Mr. Dubignon,” he said. And by the inner guard and the extreme inner guard and the secretary entanglements, King marched straight into the august Presence. All roads led to Rome. Ten minutes later he came out, his head in the clouds. His cherished plans for a thirty-five story office building were behind him. Billee’s eyes danced when he told her the story.