When Dorsett dies—as he is likely to do any day, I understand—the showdown must come. Your father, I presume, will not remain if Stanway is made president."
"No," said Marjorie. "I've heard him say so; half a dozen other big companies have been after father, Mr. Rinderfeld."
Rinderfeld nodded. "And if your father is made president, Stanway will not stay?" He made that a question.
"Father himself has said he didn't see how Mr. Stanway can; he's referred to father, even in these last years, as 'my clerk' at every possible chance."
"So I have heard. Now, these are no times for a company, which is still taking on men and paying dividends, to indulge in family affections when electing a president for a ten-million-dollar corporation. Stanway knows that his own cousins—or enough of them to make a majority of stock with the other crowd will vote your father in when Dorsett dies or resigns, unless he can make it impossible. This accident the other night must have seemed to him made for his hand."
Marjorie jerked quickly; through the blur of her brain, attempting to receive and arrange so many amazing ideas so rapidly, suddenly she perceived at what Rinderfeld was aiming.
"You mean, Mr. Rinderfeld," she said, reaching her hand forward to his desk, "that Mr. Stanway knows of—that?"
"Knows?" said Rinderfeld judicially. "He has known about 4689 Clearedge Street, I am quite sure, for some time. Possibly he has been waiting for some such accident as has happened; possibly" Rinder-
