On Thursday—the president, a keen psychologist, to reassure the richest man in the world, had jocularly called it Consternation Day—Mr. William Mellen and Mr. Richard Dawson entered the bank. They had ridden from Mr. Mellen’s house in Mr. Mellen’s brougham. They had discussed Mr. Grinnell at great and painful length many times in that week. In the carriage, on the way downtown, they had talked of nothing else. The president was certain that the mystery no longer was a mystery. The burden of his argument had become that a condition, not a theory, confronted them. The time for idle speculation had passed. It behooved them to act. The lingering indecision of Mr. Mellen did not come from inability to change his lifetime’s plans in the twinkling of an eye, but from unwillingness to accept at second-hand the inevitableness of something unspeakably disagreeable. All great business generals are opportunists. But at times the greatest minds work femininely.

“The question of whether he makes his gold or not, or how he gets it, now has merely an academic interest, William. The thing is, that he has the gold.” Dawson said it in a playfully exaggerated pedagogical air, yet ready to become deadly earnest in a twinkling.

“I don’t see it,” said Mellen seriously. “We must find the explanation. What he can do, we can do.”

“We have tried.”

“We must succeed.”

“Your coachman says to himself: ‘If Mr. Mellen has made five hundred millions of dollars in thirty years, what he can do, I can do. Do you see him doing it? I tell you the man has the gold. He isn’t trying to sell us any secret. All he asks is to be let alone. That is the alarming thing.

“It must be a mine. Where else could so much gold come from?” Mellen’s thoughts were on the source of the gold.

“My dear William, we can account for every ounce of gold produced in the world. There is no mine capable of producing such a quantity secretly.”

“He may have hoarded it; accumulated it for months.”

“If a mine produced a thousand ounces a month We’d know it; and Grinnell has deposited in our bank and others, as far as I have been able to trace, at the rate of a million ounces a month. He is too young to have hoarded it for years. He has no accomplices. That is certain. He visits nobody, but stays home. His father did not leave it to him. He has not unearthed any secret treasure, and, moreover, there never was or could be a hidden treasure of such magnitude. Why, his gold must weigh something like seventy-five tons! Nobody could have given it to him, for nobody had it to give except our bank or the Commercial, and we certainly didn’t. The Assay Office say Grinnel’s is not quite like any of the other bullion that goes to the Assay Office. Its only impurity is a little platinum, and it isn’t always present. We know, within a negligible quantity, where almost every ounce of gold in the world is, and who holds it. There is not a bank or a bullion dealer anywhere whose supply is not known, approximately, to us. It’s my business to know. There’s no mystery about that. The mystery is Grinnell’s gold supply. He cannot store vast quantities in his house. Our men have been in every room in it. Costello, disguised as a driver from the dealers from whom Grinnell buys his chemical supplies, says there is no place for vaults. The only alterations made in the house since Grinnell bought it, that he can see, were to transform the basement into a metallurgical laboratory. We can say almost certainly that the gold is melted in his electric furnace. But all that we know positively is this: NOTHING GOES IN, AND GOLD COMES OUT! Grinnell is making it, I tell you.” The president turned to his morning mail. Mellen stopped him.

“But that is impossible. You know it is.”

“It is a scientific impossibility; but it is also an actual fact. Maybe it isn’t gold at all. But the Assay Office and chemists who have analysed samples I secured from the Assay Office say it is. Where can he get it? Not from a mine outside of New York, for we could easily trace it, no matter how long ago it came. Not from a mine in Thirty-eighth Street, or we’d know it. Not from sea-water. I even had the street torn up in front of Grin-nell’s house under pretence of fixing the gas-main. He can’t get it from the air. The whole thing is impossible. That’s why I’m afraid.”

“If he makes it he must make it out of something,’’ said Mellen controversially.

“Wilkins & Gross, the chemical people, say that last year Grinnell bought large quantities of iridium, osmium, ruthenium, and other metals of the platinum group. They understood that he had been experimenting with an electrical furnace. Costello saw a gas-engine and a dynamo in the laboratory, and a lot of electrical apparatus. That’s his specialty, it seems. And the Columbia people say he is quite an authority on radium. I tell you the man makes it; at least, to all intents and purposes he does. Perhaps it’s radium rays applied to some base metal in some way which he has discovered accidentally. Wait till you see him,” and Mr. Dawson began composedly to rip the edges of the envelopes with a long, sharp paper-cutter.

The richest man in the world walked up and down the office. Once his lips moved. Dawson, who happened to look up from his work at that very moment, asked him: “What did you say, William?”

“The government would be justified in stopping him.”

“If the world knew the secret of making gold what would be gained? He has us in his power. No sense to blind your eyes to it.”

The face of the richest man in the world flushed. He said, with an impressive, because calm, determination: “He must be stopped!” He paused. Looking at his friend steadily, he repeated, very quietly—too quietly: “At any cost!”

“If we can stop him by fair words, all right. No use to try anything else. He has provided against everything!”

The richest man in the world stared at his friend; his head was bent forward as if to listen better. At Dawson’s last words he resumed his pacing. The pattern of the big Oriental rug consisted of ornate squares surrounded by a profusion of arabesques. Mel-len, his gaze fixed on the rug, stepped on alternate squares as he walked up and down the room. The president began to read his mail. From time to time he looked up and saw the richest man in the world striding up and down the room, carefully stepping on alternate squares in the rug.

An office-boy entered.

“Mr. Grinnell is here, sir,” he announced.

The richest man in the world halted abruptly and waited, his eyes on the door.

“Show him in at once. Ah, good-morning, Mr. Grinnell.” The president rose and walked toward the young man with outstretched hand.

“Good-morning, Mr. Dawson,” said Grinnell cheerfully. He became aware of Mr. Mellen, who was staring at him unblinkingly, and hesitated.

“Mr. Grinnell, let me introduce my friend, Mr. William Mellen.”

“How do you do, Mr. Mellen?” said Grinnell. Mr. Mellen shook hands and Grinnell gazed attentively at the richest man in the world. After a slight pause, he added deprecatingly, as if to explain his scrutiny; “I have read so much about you, Mr. Mellen. I hope you will pardon my rudeness.”

“I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Grinnell. I have heard a great deal about you, lately.” Mellen said this almost impatiently. He was a man whose business soul was dark and tortuous, like his methods. His speech was habitually non-committal, and he had won more battles and more millions by patience than by aggression. But now he was eager to plunge into a cross-examination of the young man before him. Yet, he looked ill at ease. Perhaps he feared to find that Dawson was not mistaken in his wild surmises.

“Yes,” put in the bank president, with an ingratiating smile at the young man, “I have taken the liberty of speaking to Mr. Mellen about you.” A slight frown appeared on Grinnell’s face. The president hastened to add: “He is the only soul on earth to whom I have spoken. You see, Mr. Grinnell, I was very anxious to bring you two together. Yours is an extraordinary case; and Mr. Mellen is not only a director of this bank, but I consider him, as a business man and financier, one of the—”

“Never mind all that, Dawson,” interrupted Mellen, with a curious mixture of habitual smoothness and an unwonted sharpness, as if deprecating flattery, and at the same time resenting the president’s apologetic attitude. “Mr. Grinnell, I am sure you must realize that you have created a condition which may become of national importance, since it contains a dire menace to this country’s business.” He assumed, toward the end of his speech, or his voice and manner did, that Mr. Grinnell and he were in accord on that point.

Grinnell looked distinctly surprised. When he spoke, both his hearers felt absolutely assured that he wished to gain time, to plan a defence.

“I certainly do not realize anything of the kind, Mr. Mellen.”

“Then, sir, it is high time you did,” returned Mellen. His face was composed, but in the composure there was menace. Mr.

Dawson made haste to offset the effect which he feared Mr. Mellen’s words might have on Mr. George K. Grinnell. He said, with flattering deference; “As I explained to you, Mr. Grinnell, the money-market is a delicate piece of mechanism. Unusual shocks produce unusual disturbances; and all disturbances are highly detrimental to business.” He smiled deprecatingly but forgivingly: the money-market was a pampered child; no need to be too harsh.

“Yes, I know that. But what unusual shock have I given to the delicate mechanism of the money-market?” Grinnell’s effort to conceal his annoyance was apparent to the two capitalists.

“You have not yet, sir; but what assurance have I, have all business men, that you will not?” The richest man in the world asked this with a frown, as if Mr. Grinnell had not met him half-way and might as well now throw off his mask and reveal himself frankly, as the criminal disturber of the world’s business peace, to be dealt with accordingly.

“Assurance that I will not? Why should I disturb the money-market? The money-market does not disturb me.” Grinnell said it not at all jocularly, but very calmly, as if he meant it literally.

“But you will disturb it if you keep on,” said Mellen, drumming with his finger-tips on the top of the president’s desk. He perceived this and ceased with an abruptness that betokened remorse over the absence of self-control. He was an introspective man.

“There is nothing unusual going on, is there? No stringency anywhere; in fact, I gather from the newspapers that money rates are very low,” Grinnell went on.

“Your deposits are, in some measure, responsible for it,” said Dawson, with a placating smile.

“I am glad of it,” said the young man simply. “It is a good thing that people should be able to borrow money cheaply, isn’t it?”

“Not too cheaply.” Mr. Dawson shook his head and smiled, as at a favourite son who is in error, but is young.

“Oh, I know what you mean. It isn’t profitable for the banks with money to lend; it makes the supply greater than the demand, and you get lower interest rates on your loans; and then it is apt to be a sign that business is slack, and people have no need to borrow. But just now, unless all the newspapers lie, business is quite active in all lines and—” Grinnell’s speech savoured slightly of the pedagogical, like a school-boy enunciating obvious truths, but using his teacher’s professional solemnity.

“That is not the point,” interrupted the richest man in the world.

“What is the point, then?” asked Grin-nell, with an air of forgiving Mellen’s impoliteness.

“Do you propose to flood the world with gold?” Mr. Mellen’s voice rang out rather unpleasantly.

“That,” said the young man slowly, “is a very remarkable question, Mr. Mellen.”

“Mr. Grinnell”—Mr. Dawson spoke with a half-jocular voice—“I have told Mr. Mellen of your extraordinary deposits, and he naturally wishes to know if you are ever going to stop.”

“Yes, Mr. Dawson, I am going to stop at once. I shall transfer my account to another bank. Will you be good enough to—”

“No, no, no! You misunderstand me.”

“Mr. Dawson, I have told you several times that if the fact that I was one of your depositors disturbed you, you could rid yourself of your suffering by telling me to seek some other bank. The reason why I selected this one was because it was the richest and, I supposed, the most ably managed in the country. Nothing but the fear of arousing a curiosity I could not gratify made me deposit my gold gradually. If a man deposited fifty or a hundred millions at once, and everybody knew it, he could not live in peace in this country. The sensational newspapers would hound him to death. You know what my views are, and that I hope to do some good to my fellow-men in this world. But I see that I was mistaken in my assumption that I could deposit some of my funds with you. To prevent further—”

“Mr. Grinnell, I beg that you will not close your account with us. Your money is yours to do with as you see fit; but don’t withdraw it because of a misunderstanding. We are very glad indeed to have your account. But really, my dear Mr. Grinnell, you must see how natural it is that we should wish to know, not so much the source of your gold, but the quantity controlled by you.”

“And the source too,” said the richest man in the world, in a tone that showed there should be no argument about a purely family matter. “Where does it come from?”

“Mr. Dawson,” said Grinnell, distinctly ignoring Mellen, “Mr. Mellen is one of your largest depositors, is he not?”

“Yes; he—”

“Do you insist upon his telling you where he gets the money that he deposits here?”

“Mr. Grinnell——”

“Is my gold any different from his gold? Is an Assay Office check not as good as an International Distributing Syndicate check? I don’t mean ethically, but financially.”

Mr. Mellen flushed. Mr. Dawson said with the dignity of suppressed anger: “It is not that; but if gold is to become as cheap as pig-iron——”

“Why should it?” interrupted Grinnell idly. “Does Mr. Mellen intend to give all his money to the poor?”

“This is——” began Mellen, in a rebuking voice.

“Mr. Grinnell,” said the president, still with much dignity, “we have no desire to pry into your private affairs. But great wealth means great responsibilities, and what is permissible to a pauper is not permissible to you. You must admit that there is no limit to the harm that can be done from a too rapid increase in the gold supply of the world.”

“I realize that. You agreed with me that an increase of one hundred millions a year, in addition to the normal output of the mines now in operation, was not excessive. Since I saw you I have carefully studied the matter”—Grinnell’s voice and manner showed profound conviction—“and I have come to the conclusion that the world could not only stand two hundred and fifty millions more than it is now getting, but be all the better for it. That is only a billion more in four years. Four years is a long time.” He looked pensive—as if he were thinking how very long that would be.

Mr. Mellen started. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but Grinnell went on quickly: “Tell me, Mr. Dawson, is it not true that the expansion in business all over during the past few years, while it has been followed by a great expansion in bank credits, has not been followed by a proportionate increase in the supply of actual cash? That being the case, why couldn’t it be possible to add two hundred and fifty millions a year without disturbing business, by distributing one hundred millions among banks in Germany, France, and England, and scattering one hundred and fifty millions among banks in various sections of the United States?”

“Do you propose to do this?” Mr. Dawson was looking at the young man with an intentness which he could not help tinge-ing with anxiety.

“That isn’t the question,” said Grinnell, a trifle impatiently, as if unwilling to lose the thread of his argument. “Do you deny that such a thing could be done?”

“Yes, I do! It would mean wild inflation; it would lead to a world panic!” said Mellen, not altogether composedly.

“Do you think so, Mr. Dawson?” Grin-nell persistently ignored Mr. Mellen.

“I think,” replied the president, nervously, “that $250,000,000 in gold a year more than the world is now getting would be too much. Without definite knowledge of the source and limit of the new supply, sentiment would become so alarmed that it would mean a disastrous panic, probably the worst in the history of humanity, since there would be the keenest apprehension over the possibility of gold being demonetized. An inexhaustible supply of gold could lead to nothing else; and then—God help us all!” The president was so impressed by his own words that his face grew livid. Mr. Mellen was breathing quickly.

“Who said anything about an inexhaustible supply of gold?” said Grinnell angrily. “I, of all people, do not wish gold to be demonetized. What would my gold be worth if that happened?”

“Precisely; that’s why we wish you to confide in us,” said Dawson, with a very friendly smile.

“But I still believe,” said Grinnell doggedly, “that two hundred and fifty millions a year would not do harm. I have made up my mind on that point, and I will not change it. Mr. Dawson, you have asked me several questions. Now, let me ask you one: Do you, or do you not, wish me to make any additional deposits in this bank?”

“Certainly I wish you to if you do.”

“Very well.” The young man took from his pocket-book a package of slips. He read one after another—the bank president could see that they were Assay Office checks—and finally selected one. He said, “Here is a check for eleven millions two hundred thousand,” and returned the others—there were at least eight—to his pocket-book. “I shall deposit this.”

Mellen walked over to the desk and took the slip from Mr. Dawson’s hand with a calm authoritativeness, as though the bank president were his clerk, which, indeed, was what Wall Street thought, though erroneously. Then he turned to Grinnell.

“What assurance will you give that you will do nothing to ruin us? If the world knew your secret it would mean ruin for all, absolute ruin!” The sound of that word, uttered by himself, seemed to shake Mellen’s composure. He glared at the young man.

“Mr. Mellen,” said Grinnell, very quietly, “you are an older man than I. I shall try not to forget it.’”

“I must know! At once! Do you hear me?” said Mr. Mellen loudly. It was not exactly anger which burned in his eyes, but a sort of overgrown petulance at being baffled. There was an obstacle; it might be insurmountable. The uncertainty was in itself a check. An invincible pugilist had been knocked down for the first time in his career as champion.

“William!” said Mr. Dawson, approaching his friend; “you are excited.” Then to the young man, apologetically: “He has been under a severe strain for some time past.”

The richest man in the world grew composed as by magic. For the first time that day he became his normal self. He had crushed all opposition to his Syndicate twenty years before by the exercise of stupendous will-power. For a decade he had not been called upon to weigh his words or his actions. Through disuse the qualities that had made him the richest man in the world had atrophied. But now he was again the William Mellen his competitors had feared.

“Mr. Grinnell,” he said, with a politeness that was not excessive, “I apologize. I beg that you will forgive the nerves of a man who, as you say, is much older than you, and has many more troubles.”

“Have you thought of any investment yet, Mr. Grinnell?” interposed Mr. Dawson. It was to change the conversation. At the same time the answer would be interesting, possibly valuable. Mr. Mellen sat down and listened attentively.

“No, I have decided to wait until my deposits at the various banks are larger.”

“How much do you propose to deposit with us?”

“Oh,” said Grinnell, with a smile full of an ingratiatory humour, “if you are still frightened I’ll only deposit a million a week. I suppose I ought to start a bank of my own.” Mr. Dawson and Mellen exchanged quick glances, unperceived by the young man, since the young man continued to smile, almost boyishly.

“Yes; you must not dream that you can produce two hundred and fifty millions a year,” said Mr. Mellen, ignoring the last bomb, about the bank. “That would not do at all.”

“I think it would. Even at that rate it would take a man some time to catch up with your fortune, Mr. Mellen.”

“It isn’t a question of my fortune, Mr. Grinnell,” Mellen said in a kindly voice, “but of the fortunes of all the world; yours as well.”

“I have no objections to seeing my fortune many times larger than it is, I assure you.”

“Neither have we, provided you take your time about it, said Mr. Dawson earnestly.

“I know I am young, but there are many things I wish to do before I die. Life is uncertain.”

“Yes, it is. And if you died?” asked Mellen. He leaned forward slightly as he spoke, his eyes on the young man’s.

“My sister would do what she could.”

“And if she dies?”

“AFTER US,” said the young man, “THE DELUGE!”