The lad's face brightened as he saw Clayton.
"I brought you down this telegram marked 'Rush,'" he said, all out of breath.

"I feared that you might go away for the afternoon." He was off like a shot, before Clayton tore open the yellow envelope.
It was a private despatch from Hugh Worthington announcing his own impending departure, and then directing all his mail to be forwarded to the Palace Hotel, San Francisco.
The last words were: "Kindly send me a private letter by Ferris, and give me any personal suggestions for handling the firm's business in my absence.

Will write you fully on private affairs from San Francisco." When Clayton parted with Ferris at the door of Taylor's, the two young men wended their separate ways, each busied with the vision of a fair woman.
Arthur Ferris, the dark "Pride of Columbia," as his college-mates fondly called him, now dreamed of nothing but Alice Worthington's golden hair and sapphire blue eyes, as the cable-car bore him swiftly downward to the office of Hatch & Ferris, at 105 Broad Street.
Seven years older than Clayton, the already successful lawyer recalled on his way the first confidences of the great capitalist, when Clayton was sent into Manhattan Island business whirlpool.
The silver-haired Detroit widower had forgotten that even New York City lawyers have hearts, when he had frankly admitted to Ferris the reasons for detaching Randall Clayton from his own household.
"You see, Ferris," reminiscently said the money magnate, "I owed my own rise to Clayton's ambitious father.

When he retired from the old firm of Clayton & Worthington, Everett Clayton had a cool million.

It was 'big money' in the days of seventy.