Chapter VIII
NOW that Fate had gotten her stride, things moved fast. King was in the office of Mr. Church checking up some plans, when the great banker, Throckmorton, was ushered in by Mr. Beeker in person. He did not look up. He was more than a little sore that so long a time should have elapsed since his plans went into the banker’s hands without a decision having been arrived at. So much depended on those plans.
Mr. Throckmorton’s visit was an event of note. He usually sent for the men he wanted to see; he did not visit. Mr. Church was on his feet instantly. The visitor did not take the proffered seat but began with bluff geniality:
“So, it was you, Mr. Church, who designed our memorial window! Mrs. Vandilever was my sister, you know—I am glad to meet you in person. I want to consult with reference to some changes in the Vandilever residence and the possible use of certain features of the window. Those little faces—”
“That was one of the firm’s designs, Mr. Throckmorton”—King’s presence had forced his hand—“I can’t claim the credit. Individuals don’t count here. It’s the old newspaper ‘we,’ you know.”
“But I want to consult the actual artist—the creator—for a special reason, if you don’t mind.”
“Certainly, sir. Oh, Mr. Dubignon, you originated the general idea in the Vandilever window, did you not?” Mr. Church turned with a show of indifference to the draughtsman, who now looked up, a slight smile on his lips.
“Yes,” he said, “and the details, also, if I remember right.”
“Hello, Dubignon, you here? Glad to meet you again,” said the banker, to the profound amazement of Mr. Church. “I have a mind to tear away the hall glass around home for something that tells a story. Can you run around this evening for a little professional talk? Shall want the same child faces you used in the church. They closely resemble a niece of mine who is to be with us Christmas, and I am planning a surprise. Come at eight thirty.”
And promptly at eight thirty, as testified by little chimes in the great hallway, King entered the home of the great banker—fairyland, it seemed.