ANSON VESTERMAN returned to his offices from the dock, where he had just seen his only daughter— said by the press to be the fourth biggest heiress in the world— off to England; went straight through to his private office ,and locked the door. He took a letter from his notecase read it, put it down, thought for a few moments ,then wrote a check on his private account for 250,000 dollars, scribbled a brief note, enclosed both note and check in an envelope, sealed and stamped it and put it in his notecase.
For some moments he sat quite still, staring before him, his lean, firm face looking old and very tired. Presently he reached out and drew towards him the silver-framed photograph which always stood on the right hand side if his desk. It was that of Richard Vanesterman, his son— his only son, Dick— dead in the far desert of Morsalbana. For a long time he studied the picture with a singular and penetrating-regard. It was a fine face at which he looked— calm, clear-cut, keen yet steady, with direct eyes, a firm mouth and a hint of ready .humour about the lips. A handsome, capable-looking boy— self-reliant, disciplined, courageous, not unlike Col. Lindbergh ,in appearance.
