“What do you suppose that means?” asked Orde, although he knew well enough.
Taylor glanced up at his dull eyes with commiseration.
“They simply won't lend good money on an uncertainty,” said he.
“Frank,” said Orde, rousing himself with an effort, “I've got to be here. I couldn't get away this winter if my life depended on it. And I won't even have time to pay much attention to it from here. I want you to go to California and look after those interests for me. Never mind your practice, man,” as Taylor tried to interrupt him. “Make what arrangements you please; but go. It'll be like a sort of vacation to you. You need one. And I'll make it worth your while. Take Clara with you. She'll like California. Now don't say no. It's important. Straighten it out as quick as you can: and the minute it IS straight borrow that money on it, and send it on p.d.q.”
Taylor thoughtfully tapped his palm with the edge of his eye-glasses.
“All right,” he said at last.
“Good!” cried Orde, rising and holding out his hand.
He descended the dark stairs to the street, where he turned down toward the river. There he sat on a pile for nearly an hour, quite oblivious to the keen wind of latter November which swept up over the scum ice from the Lake. At length he hopped down and made his way to the office of the Welton Lumber Co.
“Look here, Welton,” he demanded abruptly when he had reached that operator's private office, “how much of a cut are you going to make this year?”
“About twenty million,” replied Welton. “Why?”