The loss had not, therefore, been as great as MacFarlane had feared.

Moreover, the scour and slash of the down-stream slope, thanks to Jack's quick work, required but few weeks to repair; the culvert, contrary to everybody's expectation, standing the test, and the up-stream slope showing only here and there marks of the onslaught.
The wing walls were the worst; these had to be completely rebuilt, involving an expense of several thousands of dollars, the exact amount being one point in the discussion.
Garry, to his credit, had put his official foot down with so strong a pressure that McGowan, fearing that he would have to reconstruct everything from the bed of the stream up, if he held out any longer, agreed to arbitrate the matter, he selecting one expert and MacFarlane the other; and the Council--that is, Garry--the third.

MacFarlane had chosen the engineer of the railroad who had examined McGowan's masonry an hour after the embankment had given way.

McGowan picked out a brother contractor and Garry wrote a personal letter to Holker Morris, following it up by a personal visit to the office of the distinguished architect, who, when he learned that not only Garry, MacFarlane, and Jack were concerned in the outcome of the investigation, but also Ruth--whose marriage might depend on the outcome,--broke his invariable rule of never getting mixed up in anybody's quarrels, and accepted the position without a murmur.
This done everybody interested sat down to await the result of the independent investigations of each expert, Garry receiving the reports in sealed envelopes and locking them in the official safe, to be opened in full committee at its next monthly meeting, when a final report, with recommendations as to liability and costs, would be drawn up; the same, when adopted by a majority of the Council the following week, to be binding.
It was during this suspense--it happened really on the morning succeeding the one on which Garry had opened the official envelopes--that an envelope of quite a different character was laid on Jack's table by the lady with the adjustable hair, who invariably made herself acquainted with as much of that young gentleman's mail as could be gathered from square envelopes sealed in violet wax, or bearing family crests in low relief, or stamped with monograms in light blue giving out delicate perfumes, each one of which that lady sniffed with great satisfaction; to say nothing of business addresses and postal-cards,--the latter being readable, and, therefore, her delight.
This envelope, however, was different from any she had ever fumbled, sniffed at, or pondered over.

It was not only of unusual size, but it bore in the upper left-hand corner in bold black letters the words: ARTHUR BREEN & COMPANY, BANKERS.
It was this last word which set the good woman to thinking.