At once Clifford began work upon this strange assignment. And at once this assignment, strange as it was to start with, took on an even stranger twist—though this new turn was not at once definitely apparent.
Clifford was curious concerning Jack in his new rôle as a business man; and half an hour after leaving Mary he was shown into an office in a large suite down in the financial district. Jack sprung up eagerly from a littered desk.
“Hello, Bob! Say, this is great, your dropping in on me like this—a regular relief expedition to a strayed North-Pole-hunting outfit! Only, as a financier, I’m no Commodore Peary; I’m in the Dr. Cook class.”
Clifford returned the smile of the pleasant, almost boyish face. “How goes the work, Jack?”
The young fellow made a grimace at the papers on his desk. “They’ve turned over a one-cylinder mining proposition to me to handle. Oh, ye gods! Bob—has science yet discovered an anti-toxin for work?”
“Then you’re getting tired of it?” Clifford asked, studying him keenly.
“Tired, you bet!—and also tangled. But I’m going to stick it out.” He lowered his voice: “You know, it’s all Mary’s doing, my starting to toil in this old foundry. She said I had to make good—and you can just bet I am going to make good!”
Clifford nodded. “It’s great stuff; hang on with all your teeth. But you can’t be on the job all the time. Suppose we have dinner together this evening and then see a show?”
“Sorry, Bob, but I’m dated up with dad to-night. If you’ll make it to-morrow evening, though, you’re on.”
“All right. Say we meet at seven in the Gold Room at the Grantham.”