the touch of a magic wand. He had never realized
its potentiality; lately he had ignored it with the
contempt of supreme indifference. Now an actual
employment for it occupied his mind.

The stove glowed with calorific energy; General
Jackson, who had been lying at his feet, moved farther
away. The lamplight grew faint and reddish,
and then expired, trailing a thin, penetrating odor.
In the dark the heated cylinder of the stove shone
rosy, mysterious.

Gordon Makimmon was unaware of his own
need; yet, at the anticipation of the vigorous course
certain to follow a decision to use his money in opposition
to the old, established, rapacious greed, he
was conscious of a sudden tightening of his mental
and physical fibers. The belligerent blood carried
by George Gordon MacKimmon from world-old
wars, from the endless strife of bitter and rugged
men in high, austere places, stirred once more
through his relaxed and rusting being.

He thought, aglow like the stove, of the struggle
that would follow such a determination, a struggle
with the pink fox, Valentine Simmons. He thought
of himself as an equal with the other; for, if Simmons
were practised in cunning, if Simmons were
deep, he, Gordon Makimmon, would have no necessity
for circuitous dealing; his course would be
simple, unmistakable. -- He would lend money at,

[[307]]

p306 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p307w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p308

v?