Gerald Fosland, known to be so formal that he had once dressed to answer an emergency call from a friend at the hospital, because the message came in at six o’clock, surprised his guests by appearing before them, in the salon just before dinner, in his driving coat and with his motor cap in his hand.

“Sorry,” he informed them, with his stiff bow, “but an errand of such importance that it can not be delayed, causes Mrs. Fosland and myself to return to the city immediately for an hour or so. I am sincerely apologetic, and I trust that you will have a jolly dinner.”

“Is Gail going with you?” inquired the alert Mrs. Helen Davies, observing Gail in the gangway adjusting her furs.

“She has to chaperon me, while Gerald is busy,” Arly glibly explained. “Onery, Orey, Ickery, Ann, Filison, Foloson, Nicholas, John; Queevy, Quavy, English Navy, Stigalum, Stagalum, Buck. You’re it, Aunt Grace,” counted out Arly. “You and Uncle Jim have to be hosts. Good-bye!” and she sailed out to the deck, followed by the still troubled Gail, who managed to accomplish the laughing adieus for which Arly had set the precedence.

A swift ride in the launch, in the cool night air, to the landing; a brisk walk to the street, and, since no one had expected to come ashore until Monday, a search for a taxi; then Gerald, chatting with correct pleasantness through his submerged preoccupation, having seen the ladies safe under shelter, even if it were but the roof of a night hawk taxi, stopped at the first saloon, a queer place, of a sodden type which he had never before seen and would never see again. There he phoned half a dozen messages. There were four eager young men waiting in the reception room of the Fosland house, when Gerald’s party arrived, and three more followed them up the steps.

Gerald aided in divesting the ladies of their wraps, and slipped his own big top coat into the hands of William, and saw to his tie and the set of his waistcoat and the smoothness of his hair, before he stalked into the reception parlour and bowed stiffly.

“Gentlemen,” he observed, giving his moustache one last smoothing, “first of all, have you brought with you the written guarantees which I required from your respective chiefs, that, in whatsoever comes from the information I am about to give you, the names of your informants shall, under no circumstances, appear in print?”

One luckless young man, a fat-cheeked one, with a pucker in the corner of his lips where his cigar should have been, was unable to produce the necessary document, and he was under a scrutiny too close to give him a chance to write it.

“Sorry,” announced Gerald, with polite contrition. “As this is a very strict condition, I must ask you to leave the room while I address the remaining gentlemen.”

The remaining gentlemen, of whom there were now eleven, grinned appreciatively. Hickey would have been the best newspaper man in New York if he were not such a careless slob. He was so good that he was the only man from the Planet. The others had sent two, and three; for Gerald’s message, while very simple, had been most effective. He had merely announced that he was prepared to provide them with an international sensation, involving some hundreds of billions of dollars—and he had given his right name!

The unfortunate Hickey made a violent pretence of search through all his pockets.

“I must have lost it,” he piteously declared. “Won’t you take my written word that you won’t be mentioned?” and he looked up at the splendidly erect Gerald with that honest appeal in his eyes which had deceived so many.

“Sorry,” announced Gerald; “but it wouldn’t be sportsmanlike, since it would be quite unfair to these other gentlemen.”

“Hold the stuff ’til I telephone,” begged Hickey. “Say, if I get that written guarantee up here in fifteen minutes, will it do?”

Gerald looked him speculatively in the eye.

“If you telephone, and can then assure me, on your word of honour, that the document I require shall be in the house before you leave, I shall permit you to remain,” he decreed; and Hickey looked him quite soberly in the eye for half a minute.

“I’ll have it here all right,” he decided, and sprang for the telephone, and came back in three minutes with his word of honour. They could hear him, from the library, yelling, from the time he gave the number until he hung up the receiver, and if there was ever urgency in a man’s voice, it was in the voice of Hickey.

Gerald Fosland took a commanding position in the corner of the room, where he could see the countenances of each of the eager young gentlemen present. He stood behind a chair, with his hands on the back of it, in his favourite position for responding to a toast.

“Gentlemen; Edward E. Allison (Twelve young gentlemen who had been leaning forward with strained interest, and their mouths half open to help them hear, suddenly jerked bolt upright. The little squib over under the statue of Diana, dropped his lead pencil, and came up with a purple face. Hickey, with a notebook two inches wide in one hand, jabbed down a scratch to represent Allison) is about to complete a transportation system encircling the globe. (The little squib on the end choked on his tongue. Hickey made a ring on his note pad, to represent the globe, and while he waited for the sensation to subside, put a buckle on it.) The acquisition of the foreign railroads will be made possible only by a war, which is already arranged. (The little squib got writer’s cramp. Hickey waited for details. The hollow-cheeked reporter grabbed for a cigarette, but with no intention of lighting it.) The war, which will be between Germany and France, will begin within a month. France, unable to raise a war fund otherwise, will sell her railroads. The Russian line is already being taken from its present managers, and will be turned over to Allison’s world syndicate within a week. The important steamship lines will become involved in financial difficulties, which have already been set afoot in England. Following these events will come a successful rebellion in India, and the independence of all the British colonies. (The little squib laid down his pencil, and sat in open-mouthed despair. He was three sentences behind, and knew that he would be compelled to trust his memory and his imagination, and neither were equal to this task. Hickey had seven serene jabs on his notebook, and was peacefully framing his introductory paragraph. A seraphic smile was on his thick lips, and his softened eyes were gazing fondly into the fields of rich fancy. The hollow-cheeked young man had cocked his cigarette perpendicularly, and he was writing a few words with artistic precision. The red-headed reporter was tearing off page after page of his notebook and stuffing them loosely in his pocket. One of the boys, a thick-breasted one with large hands, was making microscopic notes on the back of an envelope, and had plenty of room to spare.) You will probably require some tangible evidence that these large plans are on the way to fulfilment. I call your attention to the fact that, last week, the Russian Duomo began a violent agitation over the removal of Olaf Petrovy, who was the controller of the entire Russian railroad system. Day before yesterday, Petrovy was unfortunately assassinated, and the agitation in the Duomo subsided. (Hickey only nodded. His eyes glowed with the light of a poet. The little squib sighed dejectedly.) This morning I read that France is greatly incensed over a diplomatic breach in the German war office; and it is commented that the breach is one which can not possibly be healed. Kindly take note of the following facts. From the first to the eighth of this month, Baron von Slachten, who is directly responsible for Germany’s foreign relations, was seen in this city at the Fencing Club, under the incognito of Henry Brokaw. Chevalier Duchambeau, director of the combined banking interests of France, was here in that same week, and was seen at the Montparnasse Cercle. He bore the name of Andree Tirez. The Grand Duke Jan, of Russia, was here as Ivan Strolesky. James Wellington Hodge, the master of the banking system of practically all the world, outside the United States, was here as E. E. Chalmers. Prince Nito of Japan, Yu-Hip-Lun of China and Count Cassioni of Rome, were here at the same time; and they all called on Edward E. Allison. (Furious writing on the part of all the young gentlemen except the little squib and Hickey; the former in an acute paralysis of body and mind and soul, and Hickey in an acute ecstasy. He had symbols down for all the foreign gentlemen named, a pretzel for the Baron, and had the local records of Ivan Strolesky and Baron von Slachten up a tree. He had seen them both, and interviewed the former.) Furthermore, gentlemen, I will give you now the names of the eight financiers, who, with Edward E. Allison, are interested in the formation of the International Transportation Company, which proposes to control the commerce of the world. These gentlemen are Joseph G. Clark (the little squib jumped up and sat down. Hickey produced a long, low whistle of unbounded joy. The hollow-faced one jerked the useless cigarette from his mouth and threw it in the fireplace. The red-headed reporter laughed hysterically, though he never stopped writing. Every young gentleman there made one or another sharp physical movement expressive of his astonishment and delight), Eldridge Babbitt (more sensation), W. T. Chisholm (Hickey wrote the rest of the list), Richard Haverman, Arthur Grandin, Robert E. Taylor, A. L. Vance. I would suggest that, if you disturb these gentlemen in the manner which I have understood you to be quite capable of doing, you might secure from some one of them a trace of corroboration of the things I have said. This is all.” He paused, and bowed stiffly. “Gentlemen, I wish to add one word. I thank you for your kind attention, and I desire to say that, while I have violated to-night several of the rules which I had believed that I would always hold unbroken, I have done so in the interest of a justice which is greater than all other considerations. Gentlemen, good-night.”

“Have you a good photograph handy?” asked the squib, awakening from his trance.

Nine young gentlemen put the squib right about that photograph. Hickey was lost in the fields of Elysian phantasy, and the red-headed reporter was still writing and stuffing loose pages in his pocket, and the one with the beard was making a surreptitious sketch of Gerald Fosland, to use on the first plausible occasion. He had in mind a special article on wealthy clubmen at home.

“Company incorporated?” inquired Hickey, who was the most practical poet of his time.

“I should consider that a pertinent question,” granted Gerald. “Gentlemen, you will pardon me for a moment,” and he bowed himself from the room.

He had meant to ask that one simple question and return, but, in Arlene’s blue room, where sat two young women in a high state of quiver, he had to make his speech all over again, verbatim, and detail each interruption, and describe how they received the news, and answer, several times, the variously couched question, if he really thought their names would not be mentioned. It was fifteen minutes before he returned, and he found the twelve young gentlemen suffering with an intolerable itch to be gone! Five of the young men were in the library, quarrelling, in decently low voices, over the use of phone. The imperturbable Hickey, however, had it, and he held on, handing in a story, embellished and coloured and frilled and be-ribboned as he went, which would make the cylinders on the presses curl up.

“I am sorry to advise you, gentlemen, that I am unable to tell you if the International Transportation Company is, or is about to be, incorporated,” reported Gerald gravely, and he signalled to William to open the front door.

The air being too cold, however, he had it closed presently, for now he was the centre of an interrogatory circle from every degree of which came questions so sharply pointed that they seemed to flash as they darted towards him. Gerald Fosland listened to this babble of conversation with a courtesy beautiful to behold, but at the first good pause, he advised them that he had given them all the information at his command, and once more caused the door to be opened; whereupon the eager young gentlemen, with the exception of the squib, who was on his knees under a couch looking for a lost subway ticket, shook hands cordially and admiringly with the host of the evening, and bulged out into the night.

As the rapt and enchanted Hickey passed out of the door, a grip like a pair of ice tongs caught him by the arm, and drew him gently but firmly back.

“Sorry,” observed Gerald; “but you don’t go.”

“Hasn’t that damn boy got here yet?” demanded Hickey, in an immediate mood for assassination. He was a large young man, and defective messenger boys were the bane of his existence.

“William says not,” replied Gerald.

“For the love of Mike, let me go!” pleaded Hickey. “This stuff has to be handled while it’s still sizzling! It’s the biggest story of the century! That boy’ll be here any minute.”

“Sorry,” regretfully observed Gerald; “but I shall be compelled to detain you until he arrives.”

“Can’t do it!” returned the desperate Hickey. “I have to go!” and he made a dash for the door.

Once more the ice tongs clutched him by the shoulder and sank into the flesh.

“If you try that again, young man, I shall be compelled to thrash you,” stated the host, again mildly.

Hickey looked at him, very thoroughly. Gerald was a slim waisted gentleman, but he had broad shoulders and a depressingly calm eye, and he probably exercised twenty minutes every morning by an open window, after his cold plunge, and took a horseback ride, and walked a lot, and played polo, and a few other effete things like that. Hickey sat down and waited, and, though the night was cold, he mopped his brow until the messenger came!