death. Felix hadn't even heard of it! He didn't read the Boston papers thoroughly. Mr. Fairchild had died last October (it was January now) and Mr. Bullard was the executor of his estate. There had been found, among Mr. Fairchild's papers, a demand note of Felix's for a thousand dollars. There was an insurance policy as collateral on this note, but it was not due to be paid for half a dozen years yet, except in the event of Felix's death. Mr. Bullard was anxious to settle the estate as soon as possible, as he was leaving in a few weeks for a year's travel in Europe. Therefore he trusted it would be convenient for Felix to pay the small amount of the note without delay.
'But I can't pay it any easier now than I could three years ago,' Felix told Mr. Bullard several days later, closeted in his private office.
Mr. Bullard was a short, erect, closely knit man, with the quick, clipped, self-confident speech and manner of a very busy and successful one. A hard, compact little unit of efficiency and great productive power. No superfluous inches, no superfluous pounds, no superfluous words or motions—or emotions either. Felix trembled before him.
'I am familiar with the circumstances of this loan,' he said to Felix, looking at him through his clear,
