TOM MERRIWETHER, only son and heir of E. H. Merriwether, finished the grape-fruit and took up the last of that morning's mail. He had acquired the feminine habit of reading letters at the table from his father, who had the wasteful American vice of time-saving.

He read the card, frowned, glanced at his father, and seemed to be on the point of speaking; but he changed his mind, laughed, and tore the card into bits.

The day was Monday, and this was what the card said:

If Mr. Thomas Thorne Merriwether will go to 777 Fifth Avenue any forenoon this week and answer just one little question about his past life he will hear something to his advantage.

Idle men who live in New York are always busy. Tom had many things to think about; but all of them were about the present or the future. His past caused him neither uneasiness nor remorse.

On the following Monday young Mr. Merriwether received, among other invitations, this:

If Tom Merriwether will call at 777 Fifth Avenue any forenoon this week and answer one question he will do that which is both kindly—and wise!

It was in the same handwriting, on the same kind of card, and in the same kind of ink as the first. Now Tom had the Merriwether imagination. His father exercised it in building railroads into waterless deserts whereon he clearly saw a myriad men labor, love, and multiply, thereby insuring freight and passengers to the same railroads. The son had to invent his romances in New York.

Ordinarily the second invitation would have given him something to busy himself with; but it happened that he was at that moment planning to do a heartbreaking thing without breaking any heart. Billy Larremore, the veteran whose devotion to polo was responsible for so many of the team's victories in the past, was not aware that age had bade him cease playing. It would break his loyal heart not to play in the forthcoming international match. Tom Merriwether had been delegated to break the news.

Thinking about it made him forget all about the letter until the following Monday, when he received the third invitation:

Merriwether,—Come to 777 Fifth Avenue Tuesday morning at ten-thirty without fail and answer the question.

He crumpled the card and was about to throw it away when he changed his mind. Perhaps it would be wise to give it to a detective agency. But what could he say he feared? Then he decided it was probably a joke. Somebody wished to put him in the ridiculous position of ringing the bell of 777, showing the card—and being told to get out. It was to be regretted that this would seem funny to some of his perennially juvenile intimates at the Rivulet Club.

An hour later, as he walked down the Avenue, he looked curiously at 777. It was one of those newcomer houses erected by speculative builders to sell furnished to out-of-town would-be climbers or to local stock-market bankers who, being Hebrews, were too sensible to wish to climb, but were not sensible enough not to wish to live on Fifth Avenue.

Tom resolved to ask Raymond Silliman, who played at being in the real-estate business, to find out who lived at 777. Meantime he did a little shopping—wedding-presents—and went to luncheon at his club. He had not quite finished his coffee when he was summoned to the telephone.

“Hello! Mr. Merriwether?” said a woman's voice—clear, sweet, and vibrant, but unknown. “This is Miss Hervey—the nurse—Dr. Leighton's trained nurse. They asked me to tell you about your father. Don't be alarmed!”

“Go on!” commanded young Merriwether, sharply.

“It is nothing serious—really! But if you could come home it probably—Yes, doctor! I am coming!” And the conversation ceased abruptly.

Tom instantly left the club. He took the solitary taxicab that stood in front of the club. He afterward recalled the fact that there was only one where usually there were half a dozen.

“Eight-sixty-nine Fifth Avenue. Go up Madison to Sixtieth and then turn into the Avenue. Hurry!”

“Very good, sir,” said the chauffeur.

The taxicab dashed madly up Madison and up Fifth Avenue, and finally stopped—not before the Merriwether home, but in front of Number 777. Before he could ask the chauffeur what he meant by it both doors of the cab opened at once and two men sandwiched between them Mr. Thomas Thorne Merriwether. The one on the west, or Central Park, side threateningly held in his hand a business-like javelin—not at all the kind that silly people hang on the walls in their childish attempts at decorative barbarity. The man who half entered the taxicab from the east, or sidewalk, side held in his left hand a beer-schooner full of a colorless liquid that smoked, and in his right something completely but loosely covered by a white-linen handkerchief.

“Please listen, Mr. Merriwether!” said the man with the glass. “Do nothing! Don't even move! Hear me first!”

“Is my father—”

“I am glad to say he is well and happy, and working in his office down-town. The message that brought you here was a subterfuge. Your father is as usual. We arranged it so you had to take this particular taxicab. Don't stir, please!”

“What does all this mean?” asked Tom, impatiently.

“I am about to have the honor of telling you,” answered the man.

He had no hat and wore clerical garments. His clean-shaved face was pale—almost sallow—and young Merriwether noticed that his forehead was very high. His dark-brown eyes were full of the earnestness of all zealots, which makes you dislike to enter into an argument—first, because of the futility of arguing with a zealot; and, second, because said zealot probably knows a million times more about the subject than you and can outargue you without trouble. So Tom simply listened with an alertness that would not overlook any chance to strike back.

“This glass contains fuming sulphuric acid. It will sear the face and destroy the eyesight with much rapidity and completeness. Also”—here he shook off the handkerchief from his right hand and showed a revolver—“this is the very latest in automatics; marvelously efficient; dumdum bullets; stop an elephant! I am about to solicit a great favor.”

Tom Merriwether looked into the earnest, pleading eyes. Then he glanced on the other side, at the bull-necked husky with the business-like spear. Then he turned to the clerical garb.

“I see I am in the hands of my friends!” said Tom, pleasantly.

“The doctor was right,” said the man with the glass, as if to himself.

“Come! Come!” said young Mr. Merriwether. “How much am I to give? You know, I never carry much cash with me.”

“We, dear Mr. Merriwether,” said the pale-faced man in an amazingly deferential voice, “propose to be the donors. If you will kindly permit us we shall give you what is more costly than rubies.”

“Yes?” Tom's voice was perhaps less skeptical than sarcastic.

“Yes, sir. Would you be kind enough to accept our invitation—the fourth, dear Mr. Merriwether—to join us at 777 Fifth Avenue—right here, sir—and answer one question? Please listen carefully to what I am saying: You don't have to go. Moreover, if you should go you don't have to answer any question. We would not, for worlds, compel you. But, for your own sake, for the sake of your father's peace of mind and of the Merriwether fortune, for the sake of your happiness in this world and in the next; for all that all the Merriwethers hold most dear—come with me and, if you are very wise, answer the question that will be asked you by the wisest man in all the world.”

“He must be a regular Solomon—” began Tom, but the man held up the glass and went on, very earnestly:

“Listen, please! If you decide to accept our invitation I shall spill this acid in the street and I shall give you this revolver. I repeat, you do not have to answer the question. You will not be harmed or molested. I pledge you my word. Will you, in return, give me yours to follow me at once into 777, and that you will not shoot unless you sincerely think you are in danger?”

Tom Merriwether looked at the pale-faced man a moment. He was willing to take his chances with that face. Also, he could not otherwise find the solution of this puzzling affair. Therefore he said: “Yes. I give you my word.”

Instantly the pale-faced man with the high forehead laid the revolver on the seat beside young Mr. Merriwether and withdrew from the cab. Tom saw him spill the fuming acid into the gutter. The burly javelin-man took himself off. The temptation to use the butt of the revolver on the clerical-garbed man with the earnest eyes came to Tom, but he saw in a flash that if he should do such a thing he would be compelled in self-defense to tell a story utterly unbelievable.

Moreover, the pale-faced man was a slender little chap of middle age and no match for big Tom Merriwether. So, assuring himself that the revolver was in truth loaded and that it worked, he put it in his pocket, kept his grasp on it there, and got out of the taxicab. His one impelling motive now was curiosity. Afraid? With the pistol and his muscles and his youth, on Fifth Avenue, at two-thirty in the afternoon?

The pale-faced man, the empty glass in one hand, walked toward the door of 777 without so much as turning his head. Tom followed.

The door was opened by a man in livery who took Mr. Merriwether's hat and cane. Tom saw in the furnishings of the house—complete with that curious unhuman completeness of a modern hotel—the kind of furnishings that interior decorators usually sell to first-generation rich on their arrival at Fifth Avenue residenceship. The furniture had every qualification possessed by furniture in order not to suggest a home to live in. Wherefore Tom, whose mind always worked quickly, reasoned to himself:

“Rented for the occasion to the man who has made me come to him.”

Also Tom noticed four men-servants, all of them well built and all of them owning faces that somehow were not servant faces. The revolver, which had seemed amply sufficient outside, seemed less so within the house. Supposing he killed one—or even two—the other two would down him in an affray. He tightened his grip on the revolver and planned and rehearsed a shooting affair in which four men in livery were disabled with four shots. A great pity E. H. Merriwether was such a very rich man—a great pity for his son Tom.

At a door, on the center panel of which was a monogram in black, red, and gold the last of the footmen knocked gently. The door was thereupon opened from within.

“Mr. Thomas Thome Merriwether, 7-7-77!” announced the intelligent-looking footman, with a very pronounced English accent.

Mr. Thomas Thorne Merriwether entered. It was a nouveau-riche library. The Circassian-walnut bookcases and center-table were over-elaborately carved, and the hangings of rich red velvet were over-elaborately embroidered. The bronzes on the over-elaborate mantel looked as though they had been placed there by somebody who was coming back in a minute to take them away again.

Altogether the apartment suggested a salesroom, and there was a note of incongruity in a golden-oak filing-cabinet of the Grand Rapids school.

At one end of the room in an arm-chair, with his back to a terrible stained-glass window, sat a man of about forty. He had a calm, remarkably steady gaze, with a sort of leisureliness about it that made you think of a drawling voice. Also, an assurance—a self-consciousness of knowledge—that was compelling. His chin was firm and there was a suggestion of power and of control over power that reminded Tom of a very competent engineer in charge of a fifty-thousand-horse-power machine.

“Kindly be seated, sir,” said the man in a tone that subtly suggested weariness.

Tom sat down and looked curiously at the man, who went on:

“Sir, I have a question to ask you. If you see fit to answer, be good enough to answer it spontaneously and in good faith. Do not, I beg you, in turn, ask me questions—such as, for example, why I wish to know what I ask. If you decide not to answer you will leave this house unharmed, accompanied by our profound regret that you should be so unintelligent at your life's crisis.” The man looked at Tom with a meditative expression, then nodded to himself almost sorrowfully.

Tom, though young, was a Merriwether. He said, politely, “Let me hear the question, sir.”

He himself was thinking in questions: What can the question be? Who is this man? What is the game? What will be the end of it all?

“One question, sir,” repeated the stranger.

“I am listening, sir,” Tom assured him, with a quiet, but quite impressive, earnestness.

“Where did you spend your vacation at the end of your Freshman year?”

Tom was so surprised, and even disappointed, that he hesitated. Then he answered:

“In Oleander Point, Long Island, in the cottage of Dr. Charles W. Bonner, who was tutoring me. I had a couple of conditions and I stayed until the third of September!”

“Thank you! Thank you! That is all—unless, Mr. Merriwether, you wish to do me and yourself three very great favors. Three!”

He looked at Tom with a sort of intelligent curiosity, as of a chemist conducting an experiment.

“Let's hear what they are,” said young Mr. Merriwether, calmly.

It was at times like these that he showed whose son he was—alert, his imagination active, his nerves under control, and his courage steady and at par. He had, moreover, made up his mind that he would do some questioning later on.

“First favor: Concentrate your mind on how you used to spend your bright, sunshiny days in Oleander Point and your beautiful moonlight nights. Recall the pleasant people you were friendly with during those happy weeks. Visualize that summer! Make an effort! Think!”

It was a command, and Tom Merriwether found himself thinking of that summer. He closed his eyes. His grip on the revolver in his pocket relaxed.... He saw his friends. Some of them he had not seen in years. Others he saw almost daily. And somehow it seemed to him that all the girls were pretty and kindly; and in particular—well, there were in particular three. But the affairs had come to nothing.

He could not have told how long his reverie lasted—the mind traverses long stretches of time, as of space, in seconds.

“Well?” said Tom at length.

“Thank you,” said the man, with the matter-of-fact gratitude a man feels toward a servant for some attention.

He took from his pocket a small black-velvet bag, opened it, and spread on the table before Tom Merriwether a dozen pearls, ranging in size from a pea to a filbert. They were all of a beautiful orient.

“I beg you to select one of these. You need not use it. You may give it to your valet if you wish, or throw it out of the window. Only accept it as a souvenir of our meeting. That, Mr. Merriwether, would be favor number two.”

He pointed toward the pearls. Tom picked one—pear-shaped, white, beautiful—and put it in his waistcoat pocket. The man swept the rest into one of the drawers of the long library table.

“I thank you very much,” said Tom. He was not sure the pearls were not genuine.

“No; please don't,” said the man. There was a pause. Presently he asked, “Do you know anything about pearls, sir?”

“I am no expert,” answered Tom. “Characteristic. You Merriwethers are brave enough to be truthful, and wise enough to be cautious. Have you any opinions?”

“I think they are beautiful,” said Tom.

“They are more than that. They represent, Mr. Merriwether, the hope of the Kingdom of Heaven. The pearl is the symbol of purity, humility, and innocence. Do you know the legend of the mild maid of God—Saint Margaret of Antioch?”

“No.”

“Margaret is from Margarites—Greek for pearl. And the reason why faith—But I beg your pardon. Men who live alone talk too much when they are no longer alone. I beg you to forgive me. Tell me, Mr. Merriwether, did you ever hear of Apollonius of Tyana?”

“Not until this minute,” answered Tom.

He felt almost tempted to ask whether the poor man was dead, but refrained because he was honest enough to admit to himself that the question would savor of bravado. Tom was consumed by curiosity as to what would be the end of it all. To think of it—on Fifth Avenue, New York, in broad daylight—all this!

How money was to be made out of him he could not yet see.

“I will show his talisman to you—the Dispeller of Darkness!” The man clapped his hands twice. At the summons a negro walked in. He was dressed in plain black and wore a fez. The man spoke some guttural words and the negro salaamed and left the room. Presently he returned with a silver tray on which were seven gold or gilt candlesticks and candles, and seven gold or gilt small trays or plates, on each of which was a pastil.

He arranged the seven candlesticks in some deliberate design, carefully measuring the distance of each from the other, and of all from a point in the center. He arranged the plates and pastils about the candlesticks. Then he left the room, to return with a lighted taper, with which he lit the seven candles and the seven pastils. Tiny spirals of fragrant smoke rose languidly in the still air.

Again the negro left the room and returned with a small parcel wrapped in a piece of raw silk which he gave to his master. He then went away for good.

The man began to mutter something to himself and very carefully took off the silk cover, revealing a wonderfully carved ivory box. He opened the gold-hinged lid and took out a silver case. He opened that and from it took a gold box elaborately though crudely chased. He opened the gold box and within it, oh a little white-velvet pad, was a cross of dull gold curiously engraved. He put the pad, with the cross on it, in the middle of the seven lights. On the arms of the cross and at the intersection Tom saw seven wonderful emeralds remarkable as to size, beautiful as to color.

“Look at it, Mr. Merriwether. It is priceless. The gems alone are worth a king's ransom. If you consider it merely as a piece of ancient art there is no telling what a man like Mr. W. H. Garrettson would not give for it. And as a talisman, with its tried wonder-working powers, there is, of course, not enough money in all the world to pay for it.”

Tom stretched his hand toward it.

“Please! Do not touch it, I beg,” said the man, in a voice in which the alarm was so evident that Tom drew his hand back as though he had seen a cobra on the table. “Not yet! Not yet!” said the man. “It is the most wonderful object in existence. It is a cross that antedates Christ!”

“Really?”

“It is obviously of a much earlier period than the Messiah. Great scholars have thought it a legend, but here it is before you. It belonged to Apollonius of Tyana, the wonder-worker. Philostratus, who wrote the life of that great man, does not mention this talisman; he dared not! Apollonius, who to this day is not known ever to have died, gave it to a disciple, who gave it to a friend.”

Tom looked interested.

“We know who has owned it. It was worn by Arcadius in the fifth century. The Goths took it and Alaric gave it to the daughter of his most trusted captain, who commanded his citadel of Carcassonne. Clovis, a hundred years later, secured it at the sack of Toulouse. We have records of its having been praised by Eligius, the famous jeweler of Dagobert, in the seventh century. It was included in the famous treasures of Charlemagne. It went to Palestine during the first and third crusades—the first time carried by a maid who loved a knight who did not love her. She went as his squire, he not suspecting her sex until they were safely back in France, when he married her. It is a wonderful talisman. The emeralds came from Mount Zabara. They have the power to drive away the evil spirits and also to preserve the chastity of the wearer. Moreover, they give the power to foretell events. Apollonius did—time and again. This is historically true. But alone he, of all the men who have owned it, never had a love-affair; hence his clairvoyance. I have bored you. Forgive me!”

“Not at all. I was interested. It is all so—er—so—”

“Incredible—yes! There is no reason why you should believe it. It is of no consequence whether you think me a lunatic or a charlatan.”

He said this with a cold indifference that made Tom look incuriously at the man, whose obvious desire was to excite curiosity. Then the man said, with an earnestness that in spite of himself impressed the heir of the Merriwether railroads:

“Mr. Thomas Thorne Merriwether, classified in our books as 7-7-77, you are the man I need for this job!”

“Indeed?” said Tom, politely.

“Yes, you are.” Tom bowed his head and looked resigned. He deliberately intended to look that way. The man went on, “The reason I am so sure is because I know both who and what you are.”

“Ah, you know me pretty well, then.” Tom could not help the mild sarcasm.

“I have known you, young man, for eighty-five years, perhaps longer.” The man spoke calmly.

“Indeed!” said Tom. He was twenty-eight.

“Yes. On top of that cabinet is a book. After the name Thomas Thorne Merriwether you will find 7-7-77. In the cabinet—seventh section, seventh drawer, card Number 77—you will find clinical data, physiological and psychological details, anecdotes, and so on, about you and your father, E. H. Merriwether, and your mother, Josephine Thorne; your grandfathers, Lyman Grant Merriwether and Thomas Conkling Thorne, and of your grandmothers, Malvina Sykes Thorne and Lydia Weston Merriwether. Indeed I know about your great-grandfathers and three of your great-great-grandparents; but the data in their case are of little value save as to Ephraim Merriwether, who in seventeen sixty-three killed in one duel three army officers who laughed at his twisted nose, bitten and disfigured for life by a wolf-cub he had tried to tame. Facts not generally known, but, for all that, facts, young Mr. Thomas Thome Merriwether, which enable me to say that I have known you these hundred and fifty years—if there is anything in heredity, environment, and education! And now, shall I tell you what favor number three is?”

“If you please,” said Tom.

For the first time he felt that the usual suspicions as to a merrymaking game could not be justified in this particular instance. It was much too elaborate for a practical joke. He did not know how the matter would end; but he did not care. In New York, on Fifth Avenue, on Tuesday afternoon, he was having what, indeed, was an experience!

“I beg that you will listen attentively. You will take the Dispeller of Darkness with you. Do not open the gold box under any circumstances. Tonight go to 7 East Seventy-seventh Street so as to be there at eight o'clock sharp. The door will not be locked. Don't ring. Walk in. Go up one flight of stairs to the front room—there is only one. You will stand in the middle of the room, with the talisman resting on the palm of your hand—thus! Do nothing! Say nothing! Wait there! The talisman will be taken from you by a person. Do not try to detain her—this person. After the talisman is taken from you count a hundred—not too fast! At the end of your count leave the room and come back here and tell me whether you have carried out my instructions. Now, young sir, let me say to you that you don't have to do what I am asking you to do. There is no compulsion whatever. There is no crime in contemplation—no attempt is to be made against your life, your fortune, or your morals. I pledge you my word, sir!”

The man looked straight into Tom's eyes. Tom bowed gravely. This man must be crazy—and yet he certainly was not. This interested Tom by perplexing him as he had never been perplexed in his eight-and-twenty years.

“Mr. Merriwether, this will be the most important step of your life. Its bearing on your happiness is vital—also on the success of your great father's vast plans. I give you my personal word that this is so.” There was a pause. Tom had nothing to say. The man went on:

“If you care to take reasonable precautions against attack do so. Thus, keep the revolver you now have in your pocket—it is excellent. Try it and make certain. You may write a detailed account of what has happened and leave it with your valet; but mark on it that it is not to be opened unless you fail to return by 10 p.m. Also you may, if you wish, station ten private detectives across the way from 7 East Seventy-seventh Street, and instruct them to go into the house at a single shout from you or at the sound of a shot. Believe me, it is not your life that is in danger, sir!”

“I believe you,” said Tom, reassuringly.

“Will you do me favor number three?” The man looked at Tom with a steady, unblinking, earnest—one might even say honest—stare.

Tom considered. His mind worked not only quickly, but Merriwether-fashion. He saw all the possibilities of danger, but he saw the unknown—and the lust of adventure won. He looked the man in the eyes and said, quietly:

“I will.”

“Thank you. There is the talisman. Each of the seven emeralds is flawless—the only seven flawless emeralds of that size in existence. Two of them have been in great kings' crowns, and the center stone was in the tiara of seven popes; after which, the Great Green Prophecy having been fulfilled, it came back to its place on the Cross. Apollonius raised people from the dead, according to eyewitnesses. The pagans tried to confute the believers in Christian miracles by bringing forward the miracles of the sage of Tyana—and they did not know that Apollonius wrought marvels by the Sign of the Son of Man—the Cross! This cross! I pray that you will be careful with it. Show it to nobody. You have understood your instructions?”

Tom repeated them.

“Precisely! I did not make a mistake, you see. In spite of your father's millions you will be what your destiny wills. Young man, good luck to you!” The man rose and walked toward the door. Tom Merriwether followed him and was politely bowed out of the room. From there to the street entrance the four athletic footmen, with the over-intelligent faces, took him in tow, one at a time. And it was not until he was out on the Avenue, headed north, walking toward his own house, that Thomas Thorne Merriwether, clean-living miltimillionaire idler, shook himself, as if to scatter the remnants of a dream, felt the butt of the revolver, hefted the silk-wrapped parcel in which was the talisman, and said, aloud, so that a couple of pedestrians turned and smiled sympathetically at the young man, who must be in love, since he talked to himself:

“What in blazes is it all about?”

II

His perplexing experience developed so insistent a curiosity in Tom that he grew irritable even as he walked. That some sort of a game was being worked he had no doubt; but the fact that he could see no object or motive increased his wrath. He discarded all suggestion of violence, though he was bound to admit now that anybody could be kidnapped in New York in broad daylight.

He decided to begin by verifying those allusions and references that he remembered. He walked down the Avenue to the Public Library and there he read what he could of Apollonius and of Eligius, the marvelous goldsmith who afterward became Saint Eloi. The helpful and polite library assistant at length suggested a visit to Dr. Lentz, the gem expert of Goffony & Company, a man of vast erudition as well as a practical jeweler. Tom promptly betook himself to the famous jewel-shop.

They knew the heir of the seventy-five Merri-wether millions, and impressively ushered him into Dr. Lentz's office. Tom shook hands with the fat little man, whose wonderfully shaped head had on it no hair worth speaking of, and handed him the pearl he had picked out from the dozen the man in 777 Fifth Avenue had placed before him. Dr. Lentz looked at it, weighed it in his hand, and, without waiting to be asked any questions, answered what nearly everybody always asked him:

“Persian Gulf. About fifteen grains—perhaps a little more. We sell some like it for about thirty-five hundred dollars.”

“Thanks,” said Tom, and put the pearl in his pocket.

If it was a joke it was expensive. If not, the other pearls the man had shown, nearly all of which were larger, must have been worth from fifty thousand to a hundred thousand dollars. Such is the power of money that this young man, destined to be one of the richest men in the world and, moreover, one who did not particularly think about money, was nevertheless impressed by the stranger's careless handling of the valuable pearls. He concluded subconsciously that the talisman was even more valuable. He took the package from his coat pocket and gave it to Dr. Lentz.

“Raw silk—Syrian,” murmured the gem expert, and undid the covering.

“Ha! Italo-Byzantine. The Raising of Tabitha. No! no!” He glared at young Merriwether, who retreated a step. “Very rare! It's the Raising of Jairus's Daughter. Same workmanship in similar specimen in the Lipsanoteca, Museo Civico, Brescia. If so, not later than fourth century. Very rare! H'm!”

“Is it?” said Tom. “I don't know much about ivories.”

“No? Read Molinier! GrÆven!”

“Thank you. I will, Dr. Lentz.”

Dr. Lentz opened the little ivory box and pulled out the silver case.

“Ha! H'm! Not so rare! Asia Minor. Probably eighth century.”

“B C?”

“Certainly not. Key? H'm!”

“Haven't got it here,” evaded Tom.

The little savant turned to his secretary and said, “Bring drawer marked forty-four, inner compartment, antique-gem safe.”

He was examining the little box, nodding his head, and muttering, “H'm! H'm!” Tom felt the ground slipping away from under the feet of his suspicions even while his perplexity waxed monumental. And with it came the satisfaction of a man convincing himself that he is neither wasting his time nor making himself ridiculous.

The clerk returned with a little drawer in which Tom saw about a hundred and fifty keys.

“Replicas! Originals in museums of world!” explained Lentz. “H'm!” He turned the keys over with, a selective forefinger. “It's that one or this one.” And he picked out two. “Probably this! Damascus! Eighth century. Byzantine influence still strong. See that? And that? And that? H'm!” He inserted the little key and opened the casket. He saw the gold box within. “Ha! H'm! Thracian! How did you get this? H'm!” He raised his head, looked at Tom fiercely, and then said, coldly, “Mr. Merriwether, this has been stolen from the British Museum!”

It beautifully complicated matters. Tom's heart beat faster with interest.

“Are you sure?” he asked, being a Merriwether. “Wait! H'm!” He lifted it out and examined the back. “No! No! Thracian! Of the BisaltÆ! Time of Lysimachus! But—Well! Aryan symbolism! Possibly taken to India by one of Alexander's captains—perhaps Lysimachus himself! And—Oh! Oh, early Christians! Oh, early damned fools! See that? Smoothed away to put that—Oh, beasts! Heritics in art! Curious! Do you know the incantation to use before opening?”

“It was in Greek, and—”

“Of course!”

“Yes. He said this had belonged to Apollonius of Tyana.”

“How much does he ask?”

“It is not for sale.”

“Inside is a pentagram?”

“No; a cross, with seven emeralds as big as that, all flawless.”'

“There are only two such emeralds in the world without flaws and we have one of them. The other is owned by the Archbishop of Bogota, Colombia.”

“He said these were flawless and that he has proofs. He says Eligius studied this—”

“Mr. Merriwether, you have on your hands either a very dangerous impostor or else—H'm! He must be an impostor! How much does he want?”

“It is not for sale!”

“H'm! Worse and worse! If I can be of use let me know! They'll fool us all! All! Good day!” And Dr. Lentz walked away, leaving Tom more puzzled than ever, but now determined to go to 7 East Seventy-seventh Street at eight o'clock that night.

He went home and wrote an account of what had happened, placed it in an envelope, sealed the envelope, and gave it to his valet.

“If you don't hear from me by ten o'clock tonight give this to my father; but don't give it to him one minute before ten. And you stay in until you hear from me.”

“Very good, sir.”

He then went to the club, ordered an early dinner for two, and invited his friend Huntington Andrews to go with him. He did not go into details.

Shortly before eight he stationed Andrews across the way from 7 East Seventy-seventh Street and told him:

“If I am not back here at eight-fifteen come in after me. If you don't find me go to my house and wait until ten. My man has instructions. See my father.”

Tom was Merriwether enough to have in readiness not only an extra revolver to give to his friend, but also a heavy cane and an electric torch. Also he drove Huntington to within a hair's-breadth of death by unsatisfied curiosity.

At one minute before eight Mr. Thomas Thome Merriwether went into the house of mystery, realizing for the first time how often the mystic number seven recurred. The Bible teemed with allusions to the seven stars, the seven seals, the seven-branched candlestick, the seven mortal sins. The Greeks had Seven Wise Men and Seven Sleepers, and the Pythagoreans saw magic in all the heptamerides. And there were seven notes of music and seven primary colors, and seven hills in the Eternal City. Also, it had never before occurred to him that he was born on the seventh day of the seventh month. And now it had its effect.

He tried the door. It opened when he turned the knob. The hall was dark, but he could descry the staircase. He grasped his revolver firmly and entered.

There was a smell of undusted floors and unaired walls. The darkness thickened with each step as he climbed, compelling him to grope. And because he groped there came to him that fear which always comes with uncertainty. It permeated his soul and was intensified, without becoming more concrete, by reason of the ghostly emptiness peculiar to all unoccupied houses. The absence of furniture served merely to fill the comers with shadows that bred uneasiness. People had been there; people no longer were! The house was empty of humanity, but full of other beings—impalpable suspects that made the flesh creep! It was like death—unseen, but felt with the senses of the soul.

There was no place, decided Tom, so fit to murder people in as an empty house. His adventure now took on an aspect of reckless folly. But though he felt in this ghostly house what might be called the ghost of fear, he also felt the impelling force of an intelligent curiosity. In this young man's soul was a love of adventure, a gambler's philosophy, a reserve force of cold intelligence and warm imagination such as is found in the great explorers, the great chemists, and the great buccaneers of dollars.

That was why in the year of grace 1913 Tom Merriwether stood in the middle of the second-story front room of a house situated in a very good street, only three doors from Fifth Avenue, with his left hand outstretched, and on the open palm of it a cross with a Greek name that meant Dispeller of Darkness—in a darkness that could not be dispelled. His right hand grasped the butt of an automatic.45 loaded with elephant-stopping bullets—but of what avail was that against a knock in the head from behind?

Listening for soft footsteps, he seemed to hear them time and again—and time and again not to hear them! People nowadays, he finally decided, do not want to take other people's lives—only their money. Whereupon he once more grew calm—and intensely curious! He had not one cent of money on his person. He had left it at home intentionally.

Presently he thought he heard sounds—faint musical murmurings in the air about him, low wailings of violins, scarcely more than Æolian harpings, and pipings as of tiny flutes—almost indistinguishable. Then a delicate swish-swish, as of silken garments. Also, there came to him a subtle fragrance that turned first into an odorous sigh and then into a summer breath of sweet peas; and he imagined—he must have imagined—hearing, “I do love you!” ah, so softly!

He smelled now the odor of sweet peas, which stirred sleeping memories without fully awakening them, as all flower odors do by what the psychologists call association. He heard, “I do love you!”—and then the Dispeller of Darkness was taken from his outstretched hand.

He stood there, his muscles tense, braced for a shock, ready for a life struggle, perhaps half a minute before the sound of footsteps retreating in the hall outside recalled to him his instructions. He vehemently desired to follow and see who it was that had taken the Dispeller of Darkness; but he had pledged his word not to. He hesitated.

The odor of sweet peas was flooding him as with waves. And he heard, “I do love you!”—heard it again and again with the inner ear of his soul, the listener of delights. He thrilled at the thought of being loved. It made him incredibly happy. He felt unbelievably young!

Suddenly it occurred to him that he had not counted a hundred as he had promised, though he must have spent more than a minute wool-gathering. He counted a hundred as fast as he could and then hastened from the room. It was plain that Tom Merriwether was already doing incredible things or, at least, failing to do the obvious. Great is the power of suggestion on an imaginative mind!

He flashed his electric torch. He was in a bare room with a dusty hardwood floor, ivory-tinted wainscoting, and a Colonial mantel. The hall was empty.

He walked down the stairs, his steps raising disquieting echoes and creepy creakings.

Mindful of his waiting friend outside, he quickly walked out of the gloom into which he had carried the Dispeller of Darkness of Apollonius of Tyana, the cross of the seven emeralds. Huntington Andrews saw him coming and crossed over to meet him.

“How did you make out, Tom?”

“I'm a damned fool, Huntington; and so are you! And so is everybody!”

“Right-O!” agreed Andrews, who was inveterately amiable and, moreover, loved Tom.

“It's the most diabolical—” Tom paused.

“Yes, it is,” agreed Huntington Andrews, so obviously anxious to dispel his friend's ill temper that Tom laughed and said, cheerfully:

“Come on, me brave bucko!” And together they walked to the corner and then down the Avenue to 777.

“Huntington, you wait here; and if I am not back by nine-forty-five go to my house. At ten o'clock have my valet deliver the letter I gave him for my father. You can be of help to the governor if you will.”

And Huntington Andrews asked no questions—he was a friend.

Tom rang the bell of 777. The door opened. One of the four over-intelligent-looking footmen stepped to one side respectfully.

“Is your—” began Tom.

“Yes, Mr. Merriwether,” answered the man, with a deference such as only royalty elicits.

He then delivered Tom to footman number two, who in turn escorted him as far as number three; then number four led him to the door of the master's library. The footman knocked, opened the door and announced, with a curious solemnity:

“Mr. Thomas Thorne Merriwether, 7-7-77.”

The strange man was there in his arm-chair, his back to the window. The room was lit by candles. The man rose and said, respectfully:

“I thank you, Mr. Merriwether.”

“Don't mention it,” said Tom, amiably.

The man bowed his head and looked at Tom meditatively. Tom was the first to break the silence.

“May I ask what—” Tom began, but was checked by the other, who held up his right hand with the gesture of a traffic policeman and said, slowly:

“A message in the dark! You carried one to another soul, who waited for it. And that other soul is taking one to you. Some day you will meet her. You will marry her. There is no doubt whatever of that. None! Ask me no questions, Mr. Merriwether. I ask nothing of you—no money, no time, no services, no work, no favors—nothing! Your fate is not in my hands. It never was! You will follow your destiny. It will take you by the hand and lead you to her!”

“That is very nice of destiny.”

“My young friend, you are very rich, very powerful. You can do everything. You fear nothing. This is the year nineteen hundred and thirteen. But I tell you this: the woman who will be your wife, in this world and throughout eternity has received your message. It was ordained from the beginning. You have not seen her; you have not heard her; you have not touched her. And yet you will know her when you see her and when you hear her and when you feel her. Into the darkness you went. Out of the darkness she will come. Nothing you can do can change it. Improve your hours by thinking of her. Think of the love you have to give her! Think of it constantly! Of your love! Yours! Of hers you cannot guess. The love you will give will make her your mate! Your love! And so, Thomas Thome Merriwether, think of the One Woman!”

“I think—”

“I know! Amusement, sneers, skepticism, anger—all are one to me. I ask nothing, expect nothing, desire nothing, and fear nothing from you, young sir. A queer experience this—eh? An unexplained and apparently unconcluded little game? A plot foiled by your cleverness—what? A joke? A piece of lunacy? Call it anything you wish. Again I thank you. Good evening, Mr. Merriwether.”

And Tom was politely ushered from the room by the strange man and from the house by the four over-intelligent footmen.

III

Next day Tom Merriwether found himself unable to think of anything but the mystery of the fateful Tuesday. He felt baffled. His curiosity had been repulsed at every step. In their definite incomprehensibility all the incidents that he so vividly recalled took on an irritating quality that made him a morose and uncomfortable companion. Huntington Andrews noticed it at luncheon; and so admirable was the quality of his amiability that after the coffee he said:

“Tom, I've got important business to attend to to-day, and if you don't mind I'll be off now. Of course if you think I can help you in any way all you have to do is to tell me what it is.”

“Huntington, you are the best friend in the world. I've been thinking—”

Tom paused and stared into vacancy. He was trying to recall whether the man at 777 Fifth Avenue had a criminal look about the eyes. Huntington Andrews rose very quietly and walked away. He knew his friend wished to think—alone.

Lost in his exasperating speculations, Tom finally ceased, thinking of the man and began to think of the girl. Was the game to rouse his interest in an unknown, later to be introduced to him? Was the scheme one that involved an adventuress? Why all the claptrap? And why had his thoughts, in spite of himself, dwelt so persistently on love and somebody to love? Why had the springtime—since the night before—come to mean a time for loving? Why had he begun to see, in flashes, tantalizing glimpses of rosy cheeks and bright eyes? Why had he permitted his own mind to be influenced by the strange man's remarks, so that Tom Merri-wether was indeed thinking—if he would be honest with himself—of marriage? Was his affinity on her way to him at this very moment, as the man said? He began to hope she was.

He dined at home and was so preoccupied at the table that even his father noticed it.

“What's up, Tom?”

“What? Oh! Nothing, dad! I was just thinking.”

“Terrible thing, my boy—thinking at meal-time,” said E. H. Merriwether, with a self-conscious look of badinage.

“Yes, it is. I'll quit.”

“Is it anything about which you need advice—or help, my boy?” said the great little railroad dynast, very carelessly.

His eyes never left his son's face; but when Tom raised his gaze to meet his father's the elder Merriwether showed no interest. Tom knew his father and felt the paternal love that insisted on concealing itself as though it were a weakness.

“No, indeed. There is nothing the matter—really. I was thinking I'd like to do a man's work. I guess you'd better let me go with you on your next tour of inspection.”

The face of the czar of the Southwestern & Pacific lighted up.

“Will you?” he said, with an eagerness that made his voice almost tremble.

“Yes.”

And that evening E. H. Merriwether delivered a long lecture on railroad strategy and railroad financing to his son, which brought them very close to each other.

On the next day, however, all thoughts of being his great father's successor were subordinated to the feeling that, if Mr. Thomas Thome Merriwether had to be the successor of a railroad man, he should himself take steps to provide his own successors. Feeling that he was his father's son made him think of paternity. And that made him think of the message he had delivered in the dark and of the message the man had said would some day come to Tom Merriwether. He drew a deep breath and thought he smelled sweet peas. And that somehow made him think of the girl he should marry. Try as he might, he could not quite see her face. He thought he kissed her, and he inhaled the fragrance of sweet peas. Her complexion was beautiful. No more!

On the afternoon of the third day Tom decided that he was wasting too much time in thinking of the possible meaning of his queer experience, and also that it was of little use trying not to think about it. Therefore he would try to put an end to the perplexity.

He went to 777 Fifth Avenue and rang the bell. A footman opened the door and stared at him icily. Tom perceived he was not one of the men whose faces looked too intelligent for footmen.

“I wish to see Mr.—er—your master.”

“Does he expect you, sir?” The tone was not as respectful as footmen in Fifth Avenue houses used in speaking to the heir of the Merriwether millions. “No; but he knows me.”

“Who knows you, sir?”

“Your master.”

“Could you tell me his name, sir?”

“No; but I can tell you mine.”

“He's not at home, sir.”

“I'm Mr. Merriwether. Say I wish to speak to him a moment.”

“I'm sorry, sir. He's not in.”

The footman was so unimpressed by the name of Merriwether that Tom experienced a new sensation, one which made him less sure of his own powers. He took out a card and a bank-note and held them out toward the man.

“I am anxious to see him.”

“Im sorry. I can't take it, sir,” said the footman, with such melancholy sincerity that Tom smiled at the torture of the cockney soul.

Then he ceased to smile. The master of this mysterious house had compelled even the footmen to obey him!

“But if you will call again in an hour, sir, I think perhaps, sir—”

“Thank you. Take it anyhow.”

He again held out the bank-note. The man saw it was for twenty dollars, and almost turned green.

“I—I d-daresent, sir!” he whimpered, and closed his eyes with the expression of an anchoret resolved not to see the beautiful temptress.

Tom left him, walked across the Avenue to the Park, and sat down on a bench. He settled down to think calmly over the mysterious affair, and looked about him.

The grass in the turf places had taken on a definite green, as though it were May. The trees were not yet in leaf, making the grass-greenness seem a trifle premature, but Tom noticed that the buds on the trees and shrubs were bursting; there were little feathery tips of tender red and pale green—tiny wings about to flutter upward because the sun and the sky beckoned to them to go where it was bright and warm. The sky was of a spotless turquoise, as though the spring cleaning up there had been thorough. The clouds were of silver freshly burnished for the occasion. The air was alive, laden with subtle thrills; it throbbed invisibly, as though the light were life, and life were love. He saw hundreds of sparrows, and they all twittered; and all the twitterings were very, very shrill, and yet very, very musical. And also they twittered in couples that hopped and darted and aerially zigzagged—always together and always twittering!

A policeman stopped and said something to a nurse-maid. The nurse-maid said something to the policeman. He was young and she was pretty. Then the policeman said nothing to the nurse-maid, and the nurse-maid said nothing to the policeman. Then two faces turned red. Then one face nodded yes. Then the other face walked away, swinging a club; and—by all that was marvelous!—swinging the club in time to the tune the sparrows were twittering—in couples—the same tune, as though the club-swinger's soul were whistling it!

Tom smiled uncertainly—he wanted to give money, lots of it, to the policeman and to the nursemaid; and he knew it was impossible—it was too obviously the intelligent thing to do! So, instead, he drew a deep breath.

Instantly there came to him not the odor of spring and of green things growing, but of sweet peas and summer winds, and changing, evanescent faces, pink-and-white as flowers, with flower-odor associations and eyes full of glints and brightnesses that recalled dewdrops and sunlight and stars. And these glittering points shifted in tune to the twittering of birds and the swinging of Park policemen's clubs.

Love was in the air! Love was making Tom Mer-riwether impatient, as that love which is the love of loving always makes the mateless man.

He could no longer sit calmly. He could not sit at all. He craved to do something, to do anything, so long as it was motion. Therefore he walked briskly northward. At Ninetieth Street he halted abruptly. He had begun to walk mechanically and he could think of what he did not wish to think. So he shook himself free from the spell and walked back.

An hour had passed. He again rang the bell of 777. The same footman opened the door.

“Is he in?” asked Tom, impatiently.

“Yes, sir—he is, sir. I told him the moment he came in, sir.” He looked as uncomfortable as a lifelong habit of impassivity permitted.

“What did he say?” asked Tom.

“He said: 'How much did he offer to give you when you said I wasn't at home?' Yes, sir. That's what he asked me.”

“And you said?”

“I said it was a yellowback, sir. That's all I could see. I said I wouldn't take it, and he said I might just as well have taken it. Thank you, sir! This way, sir.”

The footman led the way to the door in the rear, rapped, and in the sonorous, triumphant voice that a twenty-dollar tip will give to any menial he announced:

“Mr. Merriwether!”

The same man was in the same chair in the same room, with his back to the stained-glass window. Tom recalled all the incidents of his previous visits—recalled every detail. Also the old question: What is the game? Also the new question: Where is she?

The man rose and bowed. It was the bow of a social equal, Tom saw.

“Good morning, Mr. Merriwether. Won't you be seated, sir?” And he motioned him to a chair.

“Thank you.”

“How can I serve you?”

“Who is the woman?” said Tom, abruptly. “Your fate!” answered the man.

“Her name?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“Her address?”

“I don't know it.”

“What is your game?”

“I have money enough for my whims and time enough to gratify my desire to help you. Eugenics is my hobby. I recognize that I cannot fight against the decree of destiny.”

“I am tired of all this humbug.”

“I ask nothing of you now. You can go or you can come. You can go to India or to Patagonia—or even farther. You may send detectives and lawyers, or even thugs, to me. You may cease your search for her—if you can!”

“You have roused my curiosity—”

“That is a sign of intelligence.”

“I tell you now that I don't believe a word of what you say.”

“Free country, young man.”

“I've had enough of this nonsense—”

“Though I am always glad to see you, young sir, and would not wound your feelings for worlds”—the man's voice was very polite, but also very cold—“I might be forgiven for observing that I did not ask you to call.”

“I'll give you a thousand dollars—”

The man stopped him with a deprecatory wave of the hand.

“One of the pearls I offered you, Mr. Merriwether, is valued at ten thousand dollars. You did not select that one; but I'll exchange the one you took for it—now if you wish.”

“That's all very well, but—” Tom paused, and the man cut in:

“Do you wish to see her from a safe distance? Or do you wish to talk to her without seeing her? Or—”

“To see her and talk to her!”

“Wait!”

The man intently regarded the tip of Tom's left shoe for fully five minutes. Then he raised his head and clapped his hands twice. The black manservant with the fez appeared.

The man said something in Arabic—at least it sounded so to Tom. The black answered. The man spoke again. The black replied:

The man said what sounded to Tom like, “Ay adad.”

The negro answered, “Al-sabi! Al-sabi wal Saboun.”

The man waved his hand dismissingly and the negro salaamed and left the room.

After a moment the man turned to Tom and said, with obvious perplexity: “I am not sure it is wise for me to meddle, but perhaps it is written that I am to help you three times. Who knows?”

He stared into Tom's eyes as though he would read a word there—either yes or no. But Tom said, a trifle impatiently:

“Well, sir?”

“Go to the opera to-night. Take seat H 77. No other seat will do.”

“H 77—to-night,” repeated Thomas Thorne Merriwether.

“The opera is 'Madame Butterfly.'”

“Thanks,” said Tom, and started for the door. He halted when the man spoke.

“It is the seat back of G 77. None other will do.”

“Good day, sir,” said Tom, and left the room.

IV

The telephone operator in E. H. Merriwether's office manipulated the plugs in the switchboard and answered in advance:

“Mr. Merriwether's office!”

From the other end of the wire came:

“This is the Rivulet Club. Mr. Waters wishes to speak to Mr. E. H. Merriwether. Personal matter.”

“He's engaged just now. Will any one else do?”

“No. Say it is Mr. Waters—about Mr. Tom Merriwether.”

People resorted to all manner of tricks and subterfuges to speak to Mr. E. H. Merriwether—deluded people who thought they could get what they wished if only they could speak to Mr. Merriwether himself. They never succeeded. He was too well guarded by highly paid experts who prevented the waste of his precious time. But the telephone operator knew her business. She switched the would-be conversationalist on to the private secretary's line, saying: “Mr. Waters, Rivulet Club, wishes to speak to Mr. E. H. in regard to Mr. Tom Merriwether.”

“I'll talk to him,” hastily said the private secretary.

“Hello, Mr. Waters! This is McWayne, Mr. Merriwether's private secretary. Has anything happened to Tom that—Oh! Yes—of course! At once, Mr. Waters.”

McWayne then had the operator put Mr. Waters on Mr. E. H.'s wire.

“Who?” said the czar of the Pacific & Southwestern. “Waters? Oh yes. Go ahead!”

And Mr. E. H. Merriwether heard, in a young man's voice:

“Say, Mr. Merriwether, some of the fellows here thought I'd better speak to you about Tom. He's been acting kind of queer; of course I don't mean crazy or—er—alarming; but—don't you know?—unusual.... Yes, sir! A little unusual for him, Mr. Merriwether. To-day it was about the opera. Says he's got to get a certain seat, no matter what it costs. Of course it isn't our business.... Oh no! he never drinks too much. No; never! We don't think we are called on to follow him to the Metropolitan, where he has just gone; but we thought you ought to know it. Please don't bring us into any—you know we are very fond of Tom; and we were a little worried, he's been so unlike himself lately. We teased him about being in love, and he—er—he seemed to get quite angry.... Yes, Mr. Merriwether; we'll keep you posted; and please don't give me away. It was a very delicate matter and—Don't mention it, Mr. Merriwether. We'd all do anything for Tom, sir. Good-by.”

E. H. Merriwether, the greatest little cuss in the world, as his admirers called him, hung up the telephone. His face, that impassive gambler's face which never told anything, now showed as plainly as could be that he was wounded in a vital spot.

His son Tom was all this great millionaire had!

His railroad became so much junk and his vast plans just so much waste paper as he thought of Tom. Was the boy going insane? Was it drugs? Was it one of those mysterious maladies that break millionaires' hearts by baffling the greatest physicians of the entire world and being beyond the reach of gold? Or was it a joke? Young Evert Waters was a friend of Tom's; but might not he exaggerate? He rang the bell for his private secretary.

“McWayne, send somebody with brains to the Metropolitan Opera House to find out whether my son Tom has been up there—box-office—and what he is up to. I want to know how he acts. I want to know where the boy goes and what he does, whom he sees and where. Get some specialist on—er”—he could not bring himself to say mental diseases—“on nervous troubles, and make an appointment with him to come to my house to-morrow morning. He will have breakfast with us—say, at eight-thirty. I don't want Tom to know.”

He avoided McWayne's eyes.

“Yes, sir,” said McWayne.

“Be ready to notify the papers to suppress any and all stories about Tom. I fear nothing and expect nothing, because I know nothing. Drop everything else and attend to these matters at once. I have heard that Tom is acting a little queer. It may be a lie or a joke—or a trick. I want to find out—that's all.”

He would learn before he acted decisively. He stared at a pigeonhole in his desk marked T. T. M. There he kept all letters Tom had written him from boarding-school and from college. Presently he raised his head and drew a deep breath. There was no need to worry until he knew. It would be a waste of energy and of time; and, for all his millions, he could not afford the waste. He rang a bell; and when a clerk appeared he said in his calm, emotionless voice:

“I'll see Governor Bolton the moment he comes in.”

There was a big battle on between capital and labor. He was in the thick of it. He put Tom out of his mind for the time being. He could do that at will; but he could not put Tom out of his heart—this little chap that people called ruthless.

V

Tom Merriwether went to the box-office at the Metropolitan and said, pleasantly, as men do when they ask for what they know will be given to them:

“I want the seat just back of G 77—orchestra—for to-night. I suppose it will be H 77.”

The clerk, who knew the heir of the Merriwether millions, said, “I'll see whether we have it, Mr. Merriwether.” He saw. Then he said, with sincere regret: “I'm very sorry. It's gone.”

“I must have it,” said Tom, determinedly.

“I don't quite see how I can help you, Mr. Merri-wether. I can give you another just as—”

“I don't want any other seat. Who bought it?”

“I don't know. It may be a subscription seat, sold months ago.”

“It's the double seven on the seventh row that I am concerned about. I want the seat just back of it.”

“I'll call up the ticket agencies. There's a bare chance they may have it.” After a few minutes he said, “I'm very sorry, Mr. Merriwether, but I can't get it. They haven't it.”

“I'm willing to pay any price for H 77. I'll give you a hundred dollars if you—”

“Mr. Merriwether, I couldn't do it if you offered me a thousand! If I could do it at all I'd be only too glad to do it for you—for nothing,” the clerk said, and blushed.

Everybody liked Tom.

The sincerity in the clerk's voice impressed young Mr. Merriwether, who thanked him warmly and withdrew. The baffled feeling that he took away with him from the ticket-window grew in intensity until he was ready to fight.

It was a natural-enough impulse that led him back to 777 Fifth Avenue; but he was not quite sure whether he was angry at the man for telling him to do what was obviously impossible or at himself for determining to find her!

He rang the bell of the house of mystery. The footman that answered was one of the intelligent four; but his face was impassive, as though he had never before seen Tom.

“Your master?” asked Tom, abruptly.

“Your card, please,” said the footman, impassively.

Tom gave it to him. The man disappeared, presently to return.

“This way, sir.” And at the door in the rear he paused and announced, “Mr. Merriwether!”

The master of the house was in his usual place. He bowed his head gravely and waited.

“I couldn't get the seat,” said Tom, with a frown.

“It is written, 'Vain are man's efforts!'”

“That's all very well, my friend. But the next time—”

“Fate deals with time—not with next time! There is no certainty of any time but one. If you can do nothing I can do nothing. I still say, The seat back of G 77 to-night.”

Tom Merriwether looked searchingly into the calm eyes before him. The baffled feeling returned; also, a great curiosity. What would the end be? At length he said, “Good day, sir.” He half hoped the man would volunteer some helpful remark.

“Good day, sir,” said the man, with cold politeness.

Tom went back to the Opera House and asked for somebody in authority to whom he might talk. They ushered him into Mr. Kirsch's presence. Mr. Kirsch, amiable by birth, temperament, and training, listened to him with much gravity; also, with a concern he tried to conceal, for it was too sad—a bright, clean-living, intensely likable chap like Tom, only heir to the Merriwether millions!

Fearing a scene, he told Tom that he would speak to the ticket-takers in the lobby to be on the lookout for ticket H 77. Then he conferred with the emissary McWayne had sent, who thereupon was able to send in a most alarming report.

The private secretary softened it as much as he could, and even dared to suggest to the chief that it might be a bet; but the little czar of the Pacific & Southwestern, who had never flinched under any strain or stress, grew visibly older as he heard that his son was offering thousands for an opera-seat—for the seat back of the double seven, seventh row. It could mean but one thing!

Tom was so fortunate as to be standing beside the ticket-collector at the middle door of the main entrance when the owner of H 77 appeared. He was a fat man with a pink and shiny face, a close-cropped mustache, and huge pearl studs. The fat man was fortunately alone.

“Sir,” said Tom, “I should like to speak a moment with you.”

The man looked apprehensive. Then he said, “What is it about?”

“For very strong personal reasons I should like to exchange tickets with you. I can give you G 126—every bit as good—on the other side of the aisle.”

“Why should I change?” queried the shiny-faced man, suspiciously.

“To oblige a very nice young lady and myself. Of course, if you prefer to be paid—”

“I don't need money.”

“Well, I'll pay you a hundred dollars for your ticket,” said Tom, coldly.

The man shook his head from force of habit, in order that Tom might see he was offering too little. Then he said, recklessly:

“It's yours, my friend. I have a pet charity. I'll give your money to it. Where's the hundred?”

Tom took out a small roll of yellow bills, pulled off one, and handed it to the man with the pet charity, who took it, looked at it, nodded, put it in his pocket, gave the coupon to Tom, and then held out his right hand.

“Where is the ticket for G 120 that you'll give me in place of mine?”

Tom gave it to him and walked into the house, not knowing that McWayne's emissary had listened and reported. He sat in H 77 and tried to laugh at his own absurd behavior; but somewhere within him—away in, very deep—something was thrillingly alert, tantalizingly expectant.

The seat before him was empty. It remained empty during the first act. It angered Tom that the climax should be so long in coming. The three seats in front of him remained vacant until just before the curtain went up on the last act. Somebody came in just as the lights were lowered and occupied seat G 77.

Tom sat up and braced himself. He leaned over, vaguely desiring to be near her. Unconscious that he was under a strain he, nevertheless, drew a deep breath.

Instantly there came to him the odor of sweet peas, and with it thoughts of summer, of a beautiful girl, of a soul-mate, of a wife. Love filled his being. He wished to love and be loved. He wished to be somebody's husband, so that he might begin to live the life he was to live until the day of his death!

He leaned back in his chair and again inhaled the fragrance of sweet peas—the odor that must mean kisses in the open; the inarticulate love-making of breezes and blossoms; the multitudinous whispers of midsummer nights heard by love-hungry ears. And then the music! There came the breaking of a heart about to cease beating and the sobbing crash of the brasses in the finale. It was almost more than Tom could bear.

Then the curtain fell and light flooded the house. People streamed out. Tom twisted and turned to see the face of the lady who made him think of the sweet peas, which made him think of love and marriage and children—but she was wrapped to the cheeks in a fur-edged opera-cloak and her head was covered with a black-lace wrap. He could not see her face; and after rivulets of people reached the main stream in the middle aisle he found himself hopelessly separated from her. He tried to jostle his way through. McWayne, his father's private secretary, suddenly happened to be there.

“Hello, Tom!” he said. “What's your rush?”

Tom saw that it was useless to pursue the phantom of sweet peas and dreams of love unless he vaulted over the stalls. McWayne's presence made him realize how his friends would be shocked by such actions.

“No hurry at all,” said Tom, who, after all, was a Merriwether. “Just wanted to smoke and to see whether I knew that girl.”

“I'll bet she's a pippin!” said McWayne, with a friendly smile. It irritated Tom.

“I don't know any of your friends,” said Tom, coldly; “lady friends and pippins, fellows like you call them, I believe.”

That was what convinced McWayne that the worst was to be feared about poor Tom, who was so considerate and amiable when normal. Poor Tom! McWayne telephoned to the waiting E. H. Merriwether, whose only reply was to ask the private secretary to arrange to have Dr. Frauenthal, the great specialist, at breakfast in the Merriwether house the next morning, without fail.

It was a common occurrence for Dr. Frauenthal to meet—under false pretenses, as it were—persons whose sanity was suspected by fond relatives who dared not openly acknowledge their suspicions. He was a man whose eyes had been compared to psychic corkscrews, with which he brought the patient's secret thoughts to the light of day. Some one said of him that, by inducing a feeling of guilt and detection among the predatory rich, he was able to exact colossal fees from them. He was the man who had made Ordway Blake give up making six millions a year in Wall Street by quitting the game. Mr. Blake was still alive.

Frauenthal was introduced to Tom as a gentleman whose advice “E. H.” desired. The men conversed on various topics apparently haphazard; but in reality Tom, without knowing it, was answering test questions. The answers could not conclusively prove insanity, but they would certainly show whether a more thorough examination was necessary.

Mr. Merriwether and Frauenthal left the house together. They entered the waiting brougham. The great little railroad magnate gave the address of the doctor's office to the footman, then turned to Frauenthal and said, calmly:

“Well, what do you think of him?”

His voice was steady and cold; his face imperturbable; his eyes were fixed with intelligent scrutiny on the specialist's, but his fingers tightly clutched a rolled morning newspaper.

Frauenthal turned his clinical stare on E. H. Merriwether, as though the financier were really the patient. He swept the little man's face—the eyes, the mouth, and the poise—and then let his eyes linger on the clenched fingers about the newspaper.

The iron-nerved, glacial-blooded, flint-hearted Merriwether could not control himself after forty-five seconds of this. He flung the newspaper on the floor violently.

“Go ahead!” he said, harshly.

The doctor did not smile outwardly; but you felt that within himself he had found an answer to one of his own unspoken questions about the father of the suspect.

“There are, Mr. E. H. Merriwether,” he began, in the measured tones and overcareful enunciation of a lecturer at a clinic, “various forms of—let us say—madness; and your son Tom, a fine young man of twenty-eight, is quite unmistakably suffering from—”

He paused to give the fine young man's emotionless father an opportunity to show human feelings. Frauenthal was always interested in the struggle between the emotional and the physical in his millionaire patients.

“Go on!” said E. H. Merriwether, so very coldly as to irritate.

His eyes never left the alienist's own secret-draggers; but he was drumming on his thigh with the tips of his uncontrollable fingers. Ordinarily his desk would have screened from sight this betrayal of human feeling.

“Your son, sir, is suffering, beyond any question, from the oldest madness of all—love!”

“What?”

“Your son Tom is in love. That is what ails him.”

“Are you serious?” Mr. Merriwether was frowning fiercely now.

“You'll think so,” retorted Frauenthal, coldly, “when you get my bill.”

“My boy Tom in love?” repeated the czar, blankly. “Yes.”

“With whom?”

“I don't know. I'm a neurologist—not a soothsayer.”

“Well, suppose he is in love—what of it?”

“Nothing—to me.”

“Then what is serious about it?”

“I can't tell you, for its seriousness to you depends on your point of view toward society at large. There are, of course, the obvious disquieting circumstances.”

“For instance?”

“He is a fine chap—healthy, bright, honest. What is the reason he has said nothing to you? Is he ashamed or afraid? If he is ashamed it is very serious to both of you. If he is afraid—well, then the seriousness depends on how intelligent a father you have been to him.”

“Don't talk like a damned fool! I've been a good father to him; of course—”

“Wait! Wait! First tell me why you do what you ask me not to do?” In the specialist's eyes was a sort of professional curiosity.

“What do you mean?” said E. H. Merriwether, impatiently. It exasperated him to be puzzled.

“Why do you talk like a damned fool?” said Frauenthal.

Nobody ever talked that way to Mr. E. H. Merriwether, overlord of the greatest railroad empire in history. He flushed and was about to retort angrily, but controlled himself in time. The brougham had reached Frauenthal's office. Mr. Merriwether spoke too calmly—you could feel the tense restraint:

“Dr. Frauenthal, I've heard a great deal of your wonderful ability.”

He paused. It came hard to him to be ingratiating. This difficulty is the revenge which nature takes on people who acquire the habit of 'paying money for everything in this world. Such men cannot talk except with a check-book, and the check-book loses the power of speech before happiness—and before death.

“What very difficult thing is it you wish me to do for you?” asked Frauenthal, coldly.

“You are sure Tom is not—” He hesitated.

“Crazy?” prompted the specialist.

“Yes.”

“Yes; I'm sure he is not. Therefore he is saner than you who are a money-maker.”

Mr. Merriwether let this remark pass. He was anxious to save Tom. This man was uncannily sharp. He said, “And can't you do something, so that Tom will not—”

“I am not God!” interrupted Frauenthal.

“Then, what can I do? What do you suggest might be done?”

“As a neurologist?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing.”

“Then, as a man of the world—as one who knows human nature? You see, this—this—er—sort of thing is not in my line. What shall I do?” It was a terrible thing for the great Merriwether to confess inefficiency in anything.

“Pray!”

The little magnate flushed. “Dr. Frauenthal,” he began, with chilling dignity, “I asked—”

“And I answered. Have your millions deafened you? Pray! Pray to whatever other god you may have that the lady prove to be neither a prima donna nor a novelist. A temperamental daughter-in-law is really worse than you deserve, for all the money they say you have made. There are check-book gods and stock-ticker gods; and there is also God. I'd pray to Him if I were you. Good day, sir!”

The footman had opened the door, and the great specialist, without another look at the railroad man, got out and walked into his house.

“Where to, sir?” asked the footman.

Mr. Merriwether, however, was vexed to think that in relieving his anxiety over Tom's sanity Frauenthal had replaced it with a dread question—Why had not Tom told his father about her? The boy must be either crazy or in love. If he was not crazy, who in blazes was she? What was she? Why was she? All this angered him. He muttered aloud: “Hell!”

“Yes, sir—very good, sir,” said the footman, from force of habit. Then he trembled; but his master had not heard him.' The footman breathed deeply and said, tremulously, “B-beg p-pardon, sir?”

“Nearest Subway station!” said E. H. Merriwether. .

He was in a hurry to reach his office, not because he had important business to transact there, but because somehow he always thought best in his own chair before his own desk in his own office. There he was an autocrat, and there he could think autocratically and issue commands that were obeyed. He had much thinking to do—Tom was concerned, his son Tom; and Tom's future. And it was now clear that T. T. Merriwether's future was also the future of E. H. Merriwether!

Why had this thing come on him? Talk about your thunderbolts out of a clear sky—this love-affair was a million times worse! It was mysterious—and it is well known in Wall Street that a mystery is worse than nitroglycerine—infinitely more dangerous.

What was this love-affair? How far had it gone? Just where was the dynamite stored? Who was she? Why did not Tom say something? Why could not Tom have fallen in love safely? Why could he not have married a good girl who would help him and help E. H. Merriwether help both by minding her own business—to wit, a few little male Merriwethers?

It was time Tom became his father's successor-to-be. E. H. Merriwether had loved to do his own work his own way all his life. It was his pleasure. But the work suddenly took on an aspect of far greater importance than the worker. The work was the work of the Merriwethers—not of one Merriwether; not even of the great E. H., but of all the Merriwethers, living and to be.

Tom must be trained not only to be the son of a Merriwether, but to be himself a Merriwether. And therefore E. H. must cease to be a railroad expert toward Tom; he must become Tom's father, the trainer of a successor—flesh and blood the same; the fortune the same.

And, as a sense of impending loss always heightens values, E. H. Merriwether suddenly realized how important to him and to his happiness Tom was. He loved Tom, who was not only his only son, but the only Merriwether. That told everything: He loved Tom.

VI

After his father and Dr. Frauenthal left the house Tom tried to feel that he had finished his breakfast—that is to say, he attempted to read the newspapers. But the printed letters failed to combine themselves into intelligible forms, and even when he read a word here and there his mind did not record it. Obeying an unexplained impulse, he rose.

Then he sat down merely because he had been standing. Then he tried to reason why he was sitting and what sitting there thinking of himself in that particular position meant. But the sky was too blue! It called to him in an azure voice that made him long for the sunshine and the open air, and the rooflessness of outdoors that permits ten million fancies to soar unchecked.

Also, he longed for something; and, though he knew that he longed, he did not know exactly what it was he longed for, because it was not his mind that desired it, but all of him; and all of him did not think with precision. Young men are apt to feel like that in the springtime—also young women. Also widowers and relicts and canaries and heifers and burros—and even bankers!

Therefore Tom swore at that nothing which is always something and gave up trying to make himself think that he wanted to read the morning papers. His nervous system coined a proverb for him: “When in doubt, walk out!” So he walked out of the house and crossed the Avenue.

He found himself in Central Park—the remedy which the very rich do not and the very poor cannot use to cure the spring in the blood. And as he walked the soul-fidgets left him, so that after a mile or two he quite cold-bloodedly began to think of his most pressing duties. He went about them systematically.

The first thing he had to do was some shopping; shopping on Fifth Avenue—on Fifth Avenue where the jewelry-shops were; in the jewelry-shops where the wedding-presents were. There! He was off again. Everybody was getting married! What business had people to make people think of wives—yes, wives—plural; lots of wives; all beautiful, all desirable and worthy; all lovely and loving and lovable; and all fit to be rolled into one—Tom's?

It was not polygamy. It was merely composite photography. The one he desired had a little of each of the girls he admired. She was the amorous crazy-quilt that youth is so apt to dazzle itself with in the springtime—a nose from a friend; two lips from a stranger; a complexion from a distant relative; a pair of eyes from the sky; a heart from the heart of the sun—and lo! the wife-to-be!

And so the wedding-presents—a silver service, to be used by two sitting on opposite sides of a table, looking into each other's eyes; a glittering string, to be admired on a wonderful throat—were heavy enough to keep Tom's soul from soaring. And because his feet were on the pavement he soon found himself—of course!—before 777 Fifth Avenue.

Why should he not go to that house? And why should he not ring the bell? Why not? He was just in the mood to meet her!

His intentions were above suspicion, though marriage is a serious thing; but, really, now was the time for the adventure to appear—even if the adventure turned out to be merely the adventuress.

Therefore, with the inexorable logic of the most illogical state of mind known, he rang the bell and waited with an eagerness—half hope, half curiosity—most unusual among people who, like Tom, early acquire the habit of asking, check-book in hand, for whatever they wish.

The footman who answered was one of the men with the over-intelligent faces.

“I am Mr. Merriwether. I wish to see your master.”

Tom's voice rang a trifle more commandingly than the occasion appeared to call for. There was a physiological reason for it. The man hesitated so that Tom wondered; but presently all expression vanished from the non-menial face and the footman said:

“This way, if you please, sir.”

He preceded Tom to the door of his master's library. He rapped twice smartly and waited in an attitude of listening. Tom also listened intently; he could not have told why he did it—though it was, of course, inevitable.

Not a sound was heard. The over-intelligent footman's lips moved for all the world as though he were counting, and presently he opened the door and announced:

“Mr. Thomas Thorne Merriwether—7-7-7 7.”

Tom entered. The master of this strange house was seated at the over-elaborate library table, writing. He looked up, but before Tom could speak the man said, coldly:

“I cannot do anything for you, sir.”

It was so much like a refusal to give alms to a beggar that Tom flushed angrily. He managed to check a sharp retort on the very brink and, instead, began in a mildly ironical tone:

“Of course you know what I—”

“Of course!” interrupted the man, rudely; and he began impatiently to drum on the edge of the table with his penholder. “Do you imagine for a minute that you are the only mateless male in New York looking for his destined bride? And do you really think that the fruitlessness—until now—of your search is a world-tragedy? Because your name happens to be Thomas—which is a descriptive title when applied to marriageable felines of your own sex—do you fancy I am concerned with your affairs? Young man, you are the only son and heir of a very rich man; but there are some things that money cannot buy. Love is one of them.”

He frowned at Tom, but something in the young millionaire's face made him relent. He went on, more kindly, more encouragingly:

“My boy, she is seeking you, even as you are seeking her. She is very beautiful! You will meet her at the appointed hour—have no doubt of it. After your perfectly stupid failure at the opera—Wait!” He held up a hand as Tom was about to speak in self-defense. “The very futility of your manoeuvers shows that youth, brains, money, persistence, and desire are all powerless to hurry fate. As you, who have never seen her, love her, she loves you, though she has never seen you. She will know you as you will know her; but she is gone!”

“Where?” Tom spoke before he knew it.

“Be patient! After you meet her you will live with her until death parts you.”

He said this, without theatrical emphasis, in a most matter-of-fact way. Tom's suspicions, always present in this house of mystification rather than of mystery, were not made livelier by the man's words; but neither were they allayed by the tone of his voice. He hesitated, and then, adventure whispering, he said:

“To be perfectly frank, I am interested in this—”

“Young man, I told you before that I ask nothing of you—no favor, no money, no service; not even your interest. When I asked you to do a certain thing you did it. I am not particularly grateful. You could not have refused! Possibly you can explain to your own satisfaction your own inexplicable acquiescence; you doubtless have evolved a dozen most ingenious theories to account for your doings and mine. The shortest and easiest explanation is the true one—fate. After you marry you will compare notes with her—and yet you will not understand why I concerned myself with your lives. You will perplex yourselves so unnecessarily; all because of your unwillingness to say, fate! Men hate fate as a hypothesis. It is not flattering to admit that we are but puppets—the strongest of us no stronger than an autumn leaf in the wind. And because you do not see fate you do not believe in it. And, for fear of being considered an ass by a lot of asses, who also do not believe in fate, you will never tell any one your romantic story. And yet, of the scores you call friends, there are only seven men who are happily married. And those seven I helped, as I have helped you and as I shall help those I am ordered to help. Even now the Dispeller of Darkness is out, making one heart send a message in the dark to another heart waiting for it!”

“Do you mean to say you cannot or will not arrange for my meeting the mysterious person you tell me I am going to marry?”

“I mean to say that your coming to this house with such a hope merely means a waste of your time, young sir, and of mine. You will meet your love, but you cannot find her. No man finds happiness by means of a systematic or diligent search. It comes or it does not come—as God wills.”

The man rose. Tom also rose and said:

“But at least tell me where this—this alleged fate of mine is.”

The man shook his head with a smile that was in the nature of a mild sneer.

“Doubting Thomas! He won't admit it, but he can't deny it! Ah, so wise! So clever in his suspicions! So intelligently skeptical! Ah yes!”

Still nodding in ironical admiration, he approached the filing-cabinet.

“Let me see—you are 7-7-77.” He pulled out drawer seven in section seven and took out an envelope from which he drew a lot of papers. He read a typewritten sheet. He replaced the papers, closed the drawer, turned, and stared doubtfully at Tom, muttering half to himself: “I don't know! I don't know!”

“What?” asked Tom.

“Do you really want her? Do you feel that you must meet her soon or die?”

Tom knew he would not die if he did not meet her soon, but as for wanting her, he certainly did. Every cell in his body was on the alert, waiting for her, hoping to see her; and adventure, through a megaphone, was vociferating in the middle of his soul: “Come! Come!” Therefore Tom looked the man straight in the eyes and answered:

“Yes, I do!”

The man hesitated. Then he said:

“Listen! It is for the last time. Do you hear? For the last time! Do you agree?”

He looked sternly at Tom, who thereupon answered, impatiently:

“Yes! Yes!”

“Boston! Hotel Lorraine! Secure Room 77, seventh floor. On Thursday at exactly 7 p.m. be in the southeast corner of the library or reading-room, which is on the left of the hall as you go to the main dining-room. Green arm-chair. Hold your hat between your knees—bottom side upward. Close your eyes. A letter will be dropped into the hat. Then do as you please. Personally I don't think it will help or hinder. But you are young; and perhaps if you wish hard enough it may happen according to your desire. Good day!”

The man turned his back squarely on Tom, leaving to the heir of the Merriwether millions no alternative but to go out dissatisfied, excited, skeptical, hopeful, and determined to go to Boston—danger or no danger, swindle or no swindle.

The mysterious man, too mysterious to be anything but a charlatan, who said he did not wish Tom's money and, for that reason, probably did—this man promised Tom he should meet a girl—a beautiful girl, the girl he would marry. If there was to be no compulsion about it; if they, the man and his accomplices, counted on her charms to capture Tom's heart and hand—why, the sooner she began the attack, the better. Also, it was one of those things that only an ass would talk about, since the telling would put an end to all doubts as to the teller's asininity.

Therefore, without saying a word to anybody, Tom went to Boston, not knowing that McWayne's detectives had orders to follow Tom wherever he went and to report in detail what he was seen to do and what he was heard to say and to whom.

Tom arrived in Boston, went to the Hotel Lorraine, registered, and asked the polite room clerk for Room 77 on the seventh floor. The clerk smiled pleasantly, as he always did whenever a guest-to-be asked for rooms that did not end in thirteen, disappeared to look at the index, and returned.

“I'm sorry, sir, but that room is taken. I can give you—”

“Taken!” said Tom, in such a disappointed tone that the clerk deigned to explain sympathetically: “Engaged by telegraph.”

“Who engaged it?”

Tom asked this so peremptorily that the clerk looked at him icily with raised eyebrows, turned his back on the New-Yorker, made a pretense of once more looking at the index of rooms and guests, and said to him with a cold determination in his voice: “I made a mistake. I thought we had a vacant room on the eighth floor. I find we have no vacant room anywhere. I'm sorry, sir. Nothing left.”

He marked something after Tom's name on the register and turned away. He evidently considered the incident closed.

Tom was too surprised to be angry. Then he recovered himself. His business in Boston was to get a certain room in this hotel. He was a son of his father; so he said, with a quiet determination that disturbed the clerk:

“I must have Room 77 on the seventh floor! The price is of no consequence. I am Mr. Merriwether.”

“I told you it was engaged.”

“And I told you I must have it. Don't you understand English?”

“Don't you?” said the clerk, trying to disguise his growing uneasiness with a sneer.

This made Tom calm. He said, quietly:

“Will you be good enough to send my card to Mr. Starrett, the owner of this hotel? He knows who I am and who my father is; but if he should have forgotten, say that he is to call up Major Wilkinson, of Pierce, Wilkinson & Company, the bankers, or Mr. Blandy, of the Moontucket National Bank, or anybody who knows where New York is on the map. Good heavens! there must be somebody in Boston who hasn't been asleep for the last twenty years!” The clerk decided to be polite. The name Merriwether had a familiar sound, but he could not associate it. He said, more politely:

“I am sorry, Mr. Merriwether, but the room you want—and three others with it—have been engaged.”

“By whom?”

“You are asking me to break one of our rules.”

“Well, can you tell me whether it has been engaged since yesterday?”

“Oh, longer than that!” He disappeared, consulted a book, and came back with the triumphant expression human beings put on when they do not wish to say “I told you so,” aloud, “Engaged and paid for since the eighth, Mr. Merriwether. That's nine days ago. So, you see, we can't do what you ask us to. Sorry!”

Wherever he went, Tom thought he was confronted by crude attempts at mystery. To send him to this particular room, 77 on the seventh floor, was merely the same as an effort to impress children by using the magical number seven.

Who had engaged the room? Was it an accomplice or some stranger guiltless of participation in the rather juvenile joke?

Still, Tom was in Boston to do a particular thing; and, though much of the spring restlessness had gone from his veins, there remained the desire to see the affair through to the end, whether the end should be a smile or a mild oath. Therefore, after a pause, Tom said to the clerk:

“Can you give me the room exactly opposite 77 on the seventh floor?”

The clerk hesitated, then said:

“Just a minute, please.”

He consulted one of the bookkeepers, from whom he must have learned whose son Tom was. And, though Boston is not New York, money is money, even in Massachusetts; and the heir to fifty or a hundred million dollars is something, whether or not he is somebody.

“Certainly,” said the clerk, and handed the key to a young man called, in New York, a bell-boy. The young man now preceded Tom to the seventh floor and ushered the New-Yorker into Room 78.

Tom gave the studious youth a dollar and never noticed that the boy regarded the bill with a mixture of suspicion and alarm, put it gingerly into his pocket, and left the room, closing the door. Tom opened the door. The boy thought it had opened itself and returned to close it. Tom waved him away. The boy hastily retreated. He did not, however, throw away the dollar. He had discovered it was not “phony.”

The bell-boy found the room clerk engaged in conversation with two men. He, divining that the talk concerned the generous lunatic, flung at the room clerk that look of exaggerated perplexity which will cause any normal human being inevitably to ask: “What is it?”

The room clerk saw the look and still kept on talking with the men; whereupon the bell-boy walked up to the desk, frowned fiercely, and muttered, “He is in his room!”

“What's that, boy?”

“I said,” retorted the studious youth, glacially, “he was in his room—78. He gave me a dollar and left the door open. I tried to close it, but he opened it again—after he gave me the dollar.”

The clerk, awe in his face, turned to the men and nodded confirmatively.

“Your man!” he said. “Of course we don't want any fuss—”

“We'll telephone Mr. McWayne, the private secretary. The young fellow isn't violent, you know.”

The hotel clerk said the inevitable thing:

“Only son, too—isn't he?”

“Yes. Over a hundred million dollars, I've heard.” The detective, induced thereto by the invitation in the clerk's voice, had vouchsafed inside information.

“Too bad!” murmured the clerk, thinking of the hundred million and Tom. “Too damned bad!” he almost whimpered, thinking of the hundred million and himself. To show that he was unimpressed by vast wealth he added, sternly, “No trouble, you understand!”

One of the men whom McWayne had instructed to shadow Tom sat in the lobby just in front of the elevator. The other, with the clerk's permission, went up to the seventh floor and sat down by the floor telephone operator. From there he could keep a ten-dollar-a-day eye on Room 78.

Meantime Tom's impatience had reached such a point that he could not sit still. Through his open door he could see the closed door of Room 77. The thought came to him to see who was in that room. Then it struck him that perhaps the mysterious man in New York had reckoned precisely on rousing the Merriwether curiosity. Perhaps an unpleasant surprise awaited the man who should enter Room 77. Perhaps the room was occupied by some one who had nothing to do with her—and therefore nothing to do with him. Perhaps he should put himself in a ridiculous predicament. Perhaps a million disagreeable things might happen, making it obviously the unwise thing to do to go into Room 77.

All these reflections, however, weighed no more than a shadow with him. The more he thought of why he should not go into Room 77 the more difficult it became to resist the call of adventure. He walked across the hall and knocked sharply on the door. No answer came. He knocked again. A hotel maid approached him.

“I beg your pardon, sir. Are you in the party?”

“What party?”

“In Room 77.”

“No. I am in 78.”

“I am very sorry—but it is against the rules of the house, sir.”

Tom had nothing to say to the maid; so he closed the door of his own room, conscious that his actions must appear erratic, but not much concerned over it. Presently he went out for a walk and did not go to either of his Boston clubs. This omission was duly noted by the clever Mr. McWayne's star sleuths.

Tom returned to the hotel, feeling almost cured. He realized that he had come on a fool's errand; and yet there was something that told him it was not a fool's errand. It was too elaborate for a practical joke. So long as no motive was apparent the mystery remained a mystery; and no mystery is laughable—at least, not while in the act of mystifying.

So he decided for the tenth time to go through with his part, absurd or not. He walked about the lobby, utterly unconscious that he was a marked man. He could not see that the clerks and the bellboys and the two men from the New York agency followed his movements, not only with the liveliest curiosity, but with deep pity.

All he was doing was to wait more or less impatiently for seven o'clock; but impatience is so natural a feeling, and comes so easily to most human beings, that it always rouses suspicion. Tom did not “act right” to the watchers. Any perfectly sane and intelligent man, accused of being mad, will confirm the accusation if he is watched for five minutes. People who never think and never imagine are never taken for lunatics. That nowadays is about the only compensation for being an ass.

At 6.56 p.m. he walked into the hotel library and found that the green-plush arm-chair in the corner by the window was occupied by an elderly woman. It annoyed him because he desired to sit in that chair at exactly seven o'clock. Absurd or not, the problem became how to get rid of the old woman quickly and without disturbing the peace or alarming the office.

His mind worked logically enough for a man under observation for insanity, and his sense of humor acted as a safety-valve for his inventiveness. He merely drew his chair very close to the startled old lady and opened a magazine. He found a poem and began to read it in the exasperating undertone used by the demons who have the next seats to yours at the opera.

Presently he began to drum on his thigh with the tips of his fingers, and at regular intervals of ten seconds he thumped it with his clenched fist bass-drumwise. Every twenty-five seconds he pulled out his watch, looked at it, exclaimed, “Gracious!”—and blew his nose loudly and determinedly.

Within two and three-quarter minutes the old lady glared at him, rose, looked at the clock, glared again at him to make sure, and left the room. In the hall she stopped and spoke to the young lady who checked hats and coats near the entrance of the main dining-room.

“I had to leave the reading-room. A perfectly horrible person came in! He simply drove me out.”

“Yes, madam. He is insane. It is a very sad case.”

“Goodness! What a narrow—“.

“Oh, he is quite harmless, madam.”

“It's a wonder a first-class hotel, like this claims to be, allows—”

“You are right!” agreed the wise young woman, whose business was to encourage generosity.

The old lady went away, muttering. Thomas Thome Merriwether sat down in the vacated chair, put his hat between his knees, and waited. The mahogany clock on the mantel presently began to chime the hour and Tom felt a pang of angry disappointment. Nothing had happened—except that he again had made an ass of himself!

A tall, strongly built man at that moment entered the room, looked at Tom, saw the hat held between the knees, and turned away as if the last person in the world he wished to see was young Mr. Merriwether.

Tom saw him stretch his hand toward a panel in the wall. Instantly the room was in darkness. It occurred to Tom that this would be a good way to attack him; but there instantly followed the reflection that it was not a good place in which to do any robbing or murdering.

Therefore young Merriwether sat on quietly. He felt something drop into his hat. A faint odor of sweet peas came to his nostrils—the odor he had associated with his youth until he began to associate it with her, and therefore with love.

This evanescent perfume that made vague memories stir within him—that made him desire to see the woman who was to be his wife—that made him thrill obediently at the call of adventure—made him feel that the mysterious man of 777 Fifth Avenue was not a cheap charlatan.

Suddenly the light was turned on again. Tom saw a slip of paper within his hat, fished it out, and, without stopping to see what it was or what it said, rushed from the room into the corridor.

He saw men and women coming and going. He could not tell whether she was among them or whether the man who had entered the library—who probably was the man that put out the light—was among the crowd. But the sleuths and the bell-boy and the coat-girl watched him. What doubt could remain? In their minds there was none.

Tom abandoned the chase. The key to the mystery eluded him, as usual. He was not clever enough to catch the mystery-manipulator in the act, as it were. He looked at the paper. It was an envelope. On it was written in a woman's hand:

For T. M.

He opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of the hotel note-paper, on which he read, in the same handwriting:

Too late!

He walked to the desk and spoke to the room clerk.

“I must—” he began, but stopped.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Merriwether!” The clerk used the voice and manner of a man saying nice things to a child in order to propitiate its mother.

“About Room 77 on the seventh floor,” said Tom.

“We can give it to you now, if you wish. Yes, sir.”

“What? Has she—Is it vacant?”

“Given up this very minute. If you'll wait until we send up and see whether it is ready to be occupied, I'll—”

“I'll take it; but I'd like to go up at once.”

He wished to see whether there was any clue left by the previous occupants.

“Certainly. Front!”

Tom followed the bell-boy. The room was empty and undisturbed. He thought he smelled sweet peas and sat down in an arm-chair to think; but the odor, which made her recognizable in his dreams of her, prevented him from thinking as you would expect a healthy young man to think. There was no sharpness of outline in the visions of her seen through the mist of dreams and longings.

He knew there was a girl somewhere whom he would marry. Indeed, he often had wondered what his wife would be like. Every man, when he endeavors to look ahead, thinks that some day he shall have a wife—the mother of his children—the woman whose mere existence will influence his life more than anything else in the world; whose love will make him a different man; whose necessities will give to him an utterly different point of view.

Our lives depend on our point of view; and Tom knew that his point of view would be utterly changed by this girl he had never seen. Would she be the girl the man in 777 Fifth Avenue said she would be? Was she the mysterious person with whom, of course, he was not in love, but with whom he might fall in love—adventuress or not? His love of love had not yet changed into love of somebody; but he was keen to enter into a definite love-affair with a concrete being, and he rather suspected that this affair was being stage-managed for his benefit.

He would forgive everything so long as in the end something happened—something in which there was a girl, whether or not she was the girl. What most irritated him was the indefiniteness of the mystery so far. The spice of danger; the tragical possibilities; the lure of adventure; the call of the unusual; the attraction of the unknown and therefore of the interesting—were no longer quite enough. The glimpse of a face—of a living face—and a hand to shake, a waist to clasp and lips to kiss—these things he now desired.

His irritability over his failure to develop an adventure in Boston grew keener until it became anger. He would have it out once for all with the mysterious man at 777 Fifth Avenue.

He went down-stairs, paid his bill, and took the midnight train for New York.

VII

Some men are so picturesque that they do not need publicity agents, and so intelligent that they wish to be let alone by the public prints. E. H. Merriwether was one. He employed the ablest experts for his corporations and they got more than their share of publicity; but for himself—nothing. Possibly he realized that ungratified curiosity is a valuable asset; and, of course, he knew that in a democracy the less a man raises his head above the level of the mass the better it will be for his comfort.

He took pains to make it plain that he cared only for his work, because that proved he had no thoughts for mere money-making; and, since he was not interested in money-making, he could not be primarily concerned with despoiling the public—which, in turn, clearly proved he was not dangerous. And, of course, the more he kept himself out of the papers the more the papers wanted to see him in their hospitable columns. Everything he did or thought was, therefore, news. Anecdotes about him were so hard to get that the brightest minds in the profession manufactured a few. They had to be very good anecdotes—and they were.

To the metropolitan reporters, however, E. H. Merriwether was known to be mute, dumb, silent, constitutionally incapable of speech, and, besides, devoid of vocal cords. His office was always free from reporters, because they had learned to save themselves time by the simple expedient of writing their interviews with him in their own offices, after this fashion:

Mr. Merriwether refused to discuss the matter. Neither confirmation nor denial could be obtained at his office.

The financial editors of the newspapers fared no better. He was never too busy to see them; but all news about his work came from his bankers.

On the same day that Tom went to Boston, a young man went to the Merriwether offices in the Transcontinental Trust Company Building. A stout, rather high railing fenced off the bookkeepers' room from the general and unwelcome public.

At a small, flat desk near the gate sat, not a frecklefaced boy, but a man, powerful of build, keen-eyed and quick-muscled. He, was writing a letter on a very good quality of note-paper. He said: “Well?”—but kept on writing. He did not look up. This always discouraged strangers; by making them feel their utter insignificance. The effect on millionaire magnates, who similarly found themselves ignored, also was salutary.

“I wish to see Mr. E. H. Merriwether,” said the young man, pleasantly and unimpressed.

The gate-keeper wrote two paragraphs and then, still writing, asked, wearily:

“Got an appointment?”

“No; but—”

The over-mature office-boy, in one breath and in a voice that dripped insolence, said, still without looking up:

“What do you want to see him about? He is very busy. Cannot possibly see any one to-day. Good day!”

There was a laugh, not at all ironical, or in the nature of an exaggerated and audible sneer, but full of amusement; and then the stranger without the gate said:

“When I tell you what I am you will bring Mr. E. H. Merriwether to me.”

The voice was not menacing at all or cold, but there was an assurance about it that made the Merriwether hireling look up. He saw a young man, of about thirty, with very intelligent, gray-blue eyes, a straight, well-modeled nose, and a determined chin. His square shoulders and general air of muscular strength made him look as if he could give as good an account of himself in a rough-and-tumble fight as in a battle of wits.

The Merriwether gateman felt his entire being permeated by a feeling of hostility. This was neither a crank to turn over to a complaisant police nor an alms-seeker to be shooed away; nor yet a millionaire in good standing. He must be, therefore, a reporter of the new school made possible by the eccentricities of the Administration in Washington.

“My good James,” said the new-school reporter, with a mocking superciliousness, “I would see your boss. Be expeditious.”

The gate-keeper, whose name was not James but Doyle, flushed dangerously; but his wages were high, and he forced himself to keep his temper under control. For all that, his voice shook as he said:

“If you have no appointment, you ought to know it's no use. No stranger from a newspaper ever sees Mr. Merriwether. I—I'm sorry!” Here Doyle gulped. Then he finished: “Good day!”—and resumed, his writing.

The reporter said, “Look at me!” so sharply that Doyle in a flash pushed back his chair, jumped to his feet, and looked pugnaciously at the man who dared to give commands in E. H. Merriwether's office.

“My Celtic friend,” pursued the reporter, in a voice of such cold-blooded vindictiveness that Doyle listened with both astonishment and respect, “for years the domestics of this office have been rude and impolite to my profession. Mr. Merriwether never cared how angry reporters might feel or what they said about him; but to-day I am the one who does not care, and E. H. Merriwether is the man who is vitally concerned. I don't give a damn whether he sees me or not. And as for you, in order to avenge the poor chaps to whom you have been intelligently rude, I, to whom you have been unintelligently impolite, shall have you fired. I've got E. H. Merriwether where I want him. If I can end your boss I can end your job—can't I? Oh no, Alexander! I am not crazy. I simply have the power. It was bound to happen, for Waterloo comes to all great men who are not clever enough to die at the right time. Now you go and get McWayne—and be quick about it!”

Doyle at times saw things through the top of his head, which was red. He said, a bit thickly:

“When you tell me in plain English, so I can understand—”

“You are not paid to understand; you are paid to use common sense and discrimination. You go to McWayne and say to him a reporter is here and wishes to speak to him about a sad Merriwether family matter.”

Doyle knew from the office gossip that something was supposed to be wrong with Tom Merriwether; so, his heart overflowing with anger because chance had put the one weapon in the hands of an insolent newspaper man, Doyle went off to tell the boss's private secretary. Presently McWayne, walking quickly, came from an inner office, and asked: “You wish to see me?”

“No!” answered the reporter, flatly.

“Then—” began McWayne.

“I don't wish to see you. I wish to see if you have the sense to understand that I wish to do Mr. E. H. Merriwether the favor of letting him talk to me. Do you want me to tell you what I want you to tell Mr. E. H. Merriwether?”

The reporter looked as though he hoped McWayne would say no. Reporters did not usually look that way; therefore McWayne was perturbed. He replied, with a polite anxiety:

“If you please—”

“Tell Mr. Merriwether that I wish to see him about his son's marriage. Tell him that if he does not wish to talk about it, he needn't. You might add that there is absolutely no use in his trying to keep it out of the newspapers. Make that plain to him, McWayne.”

McWayne did not dare deny the marriage. Tom was, alas! capable of even worse things. He did the only thing possible while there was still a chance to suppress the news; he said:

“And you represent which paper, please?”

Reporters do not always know why or how news is suppressed, nor the price; but this reporter laughed good-naturedly, and replied:

“McWayne, the trouble with you Irish is that you are so infernally clever that plain jackasses like myself are prepared for you. I represent myself and I don't want to be paid to suppress. No blackmail here; no threats; nothing except amiability and good-will. Have you begun to accumulate a few suspicions that your taciturn boss is going to talk to me?”

“I'll see!” promised McWayne, non-committally; but he was so perturbed that he could not help showing it.

Doyle, who had made a pretense of resuming his letter-writing, noticed it, and felt uncomfortable.

“And—say, McWayne,” pursued the reporter, “could you let a fellow have a photograph or two? You know we've got some, but we'd prefer to publish those you think the family consider the best. Some people are queer that way.”

McWayne shook his head and went away, convinced of the worst. He returned and beckoned to the reporter, who thereupon said, sharply, to Doyle:

“Open the door—you! Quick!” And Doyle, who saw McWayne beckoning, had to do it.

Four hundred and seventeen reporters were avenged!

Doyle was so angry that he was full of aches. He was tempted to throw up his job. Then he hoped E. H. Merriwether, who was a very great man, would order him to throw the insolent dog out of the office. Doyle would earn a bonus.

E. H. Merriwether, autocrat of fifteen thousand miles of railroad, fearless fighter, iron-nerved stock gambler, but, alas! also a father, was seated at his desk. He turned to the reporter the inscrutable poker-face of his class:

“You wished to see me?”

“Yes, sir,” said the reporter, and waited; two could play at that game. The great financier was compelled to ask:

“About what?”

“About what McWayne told you.” The reporter spoke unemotionally.

“About some rumor concerning my son?”

“No, sir.”

“No?” E. H. Merriwether looked surprised.

“No. I wished to know what statement you desire to make about your son's engagement and marriage. If you do not care to say anything we shall not publish any fake interview, no matter what opinion I personally may form as to the real state of your feelings.”

“I take it you are from one of the yellow papers, young man?” E. H. Merriwether spoke coldly; but, within, his heart-tragedy was being enacted.

“You usually take what you wish if it isn't nailed down, I have heard; but that, doubtless, is one of the slanders that automatically grow up about a great man, sir,” said the reporter, without the shadow of a smile or frown.

“If I am mistaken about the newspaper you represent—” Here Mr. Merriwether paused, as if to allow the young man to introduce himself; but the young man said:

“If I told you the name of the newspaper that honors itself by playing fair with you, I suspect you would set in motion the machinery that you—er—men of large affairs use to suppress news. You couldn't reach my city editor, who is a poor man with a family of eight, or the reporter, who is penniless; but you could reach the owner, who is a millionaire. This is my first big story in New York and it will make me professionally. It means a lot to me!”

“About how much does it mean to you, young man?” asked E. H. Merriwether, with a particularly polite curiosity.

“Speaking in language that should be intelligible to you and using the terms by which you measure' all things down here—” He paused, and then said, bluntly, “You mean in cash, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I should say, Mr. Merriwether, that this story is worth to me—Let me see!” And he began to count on his fingers, like a woman. This habit inexpressibly angers men who find no trouble in remembering numbers of dollars. “I should say, Mr. Merriwether, that it is worth about three thousand two hundred and eighty-six—millions of dollars. If I am to stop being a decent newspaper man to become a blackmailer and general damned fool I'd want to make enough to endow all my pet charities and carry out a series of rather expensive experiments in philanthropy.”

“But—” began the magnate.

“No, sir,” interrupted the reporter, “no money, please. Just assume that I am a damned fool and, therefore, refuse to consider a bribe.”

“I have not bribed you,” suggested E. H. Merriwether, calmly. His eyes never left the reporter's face.

“Then I misjudged you, and I apologize abjectly; but permit me to continue to be an ass and blind to money. What about Thomas Thorne Merriwether, only son and heir of the railroad king of the Southwest?”

“Well, what about him?” The face of E. H. Merriwether showed only what you might call a perfunctory curiosity. The reporter looked at him admiringly. After a pause, he asked:

“Do you know her?”

“Do you?”

“Then you don't!” exclaimed the reporter, triumphantly. “This is better than I had hoped.”

“Better?”

“Certainly; it means a better introductory article. The first of the series will be: 'To whom is Tom Merriwether engaged?' Think of it, sir,” he said, with the enthusiasm of the true artist, “the heir of the Merriwether millions! By the way, could you tell offhand how many millions I might safely say?”

Whatever Mr. Merriwether may have thought, he merely said, with the cold finality that often imposes on young reporters:

“Young man, if you begin your career by being vulgar your ruin will be of your own doing.”

“My dear sir, vulgarity never ruined any career. All the great men of history were at the beginning accused of hopeless vulgarity—by those on whom they trod. I tell you it is not vulgarity that prompts me, but mastery of the technic of my trade. Do you care to have me tell you about my article?”

What Mr. E. H. Merriwether really wished to hear was that Tom was not in love—that he was not on the verge of brutally assassinating all the hopes and dreams of a fond father. What he said to the unspeakable reporter was:

“Yes.”

“Well, I start with this basis—my knowledge of your son's engagement.”

“Where did you get that knowledge?”

“One of the few things a reporter is incapable of doing is betraying a confidence. To tell you the source of my information would be that. Starting with that one fact, my problem is to make that one fact so important as to enable me to write several thousand words. To justify this I must make your son very important. He is not really very important, but you are. I shall slightly over-accentuate here and there”—he waved his hand in the air, and repeated, dreamily—“here and there! You will be the Napoleon of railroads, the Von Moltke of the ticker, doer of deeds and upbuilder, indisputably the greatest captain of industry that America has yet produced!”

“Heavens!” burst from the lips of the imperturbable little magnate.

“You are a stunning study for a novelist. Yours is the great romance of the American business man! Having made you romantic, I wave my magician's wand and quadruple your millions. Yours, my dear sir—if you don't happen to know it—is one of the great fortunes of the world! You've got Croesus skinned to death and John D. whining over his lost pre-eminence!”

“Now look here—” interjected E. H. Merriwether, sternly; but the reporter retorted, earnestly:

“Hold your horses!” And the great millionaire did. The young man continued in his enthusiastic way: “It is much to have the hundreds of Merriwether millions, but it is infinitely more to have all the Merriwether millions and such a father and youth. I thus make Tom, who is really of no importance, of even greater importance than the great E. H. Merriwether. Do I know my business?” And he bowed in the general direction of the elder Merriwether.

“I begin to suspect,” replied the elder Merriwether, “that you do.”

He was watching the reporter closely. He always had found it profitable to let men talk on. A man who talks is apt to show you what he is; and that furnishes to you the best available weapon. You also may learn when it is better not to fight.

“When it comes to picturesque writing about people I do not know, I can assure you, Mr. Merriwether,” the young man said, modestly, “that I haven't an equal in the United States. In your case I shall not be handicapped by either facts or knowledge, which are always fatal to the creative faculty. I shall be free—absolutely free to write!”

Mr. Merriwether permitted himself a frown in order to conceal his uneasiness. This young man was talking like a humorist. The eyes were intelligent and fearless. The combination was formidable.

“Your theory has doubtless many supporters among your colleagues.”

“There are,” admitted the reporter, cheerfully, “other bright young creative artists on our staff. Well, I proceed to make your son a paragon—a clean-minded, decent, manly young millionaire.”

“Which he is!” interjected Mr. Merriwether, sternly.

“Of course! I know it. Have no fear on that score. I'd make him all that even if he wasn't. I proceed to draw attention—with a cleverness I'd call devilish if it wasn't my own—to the strange and, on the whole, agreeable vein of romanticism in the Merriwether nature. There you are, a hard-headed man of affairs, whose name the world associates with great engineering deeds and great high-finance misdeeds! You are—do you know what?—a poet!—a wonderful poet whose lines are of steel, whose numbers are of tonnage, whose song is chanted by the ten thousand purring wheels of your tireless cars.”

“My car-wheels are lubricated. They don't purr,” mildly objected the railroad poet.

“They do in my story,” said the reporter, firmly. “And to prove it I'll quote some striking lines from one of those unknown books we great writers always have on tap. Your romantic nature expresses itself in the creation of an empire in the alkali desert. You have written an epic on the map of America—in green!”

“That sounds good to me,” said Mr. E. H. Merriwether, with the detached air of a critic of literature.

He did not know just how to win this young man's silence—perhaps by letting him talk himself out of creative literature; perhaps by the inauguration of a molasses diet at once!

“Thank you! Your son Tom's romance is in his unusual love-affair! This young man, the most eligible bachelor in the world—handsome, rich, a fastidious artist in feminine beauty, with a heart that has kept itself inviolate—pretty swell word that?—in-vi-o-late—all these years, opens at her sweet voice. We alone are able to announce the engagement. High society is more than interested—more than startled. As thinks society, so thinks the shop-girl; and there are fifty million of her. What society is incinerating itself with desire to find out is: To whom is Tom Merriwether engaged? Will our fair readers devour the article? I leave it to you, Mr. Merriwether!” The young man looked inquiringly at Mr. Merriwether.

“I'd read it myself,” said Mr. Merriwether, very impressively. “I couldn't help it!” You could see that literature had triumphed over the stock-ticker. A great diplomatist was lost in a great money-maker.

“Thank you! And what do you find at the end of the article? What? Why, a nice psychological little paragraph to the effect that we propose to print the name of the one woman who, of all the tens of thousands who have tried, has won the heart of Thomas Thome Merriwether, whose father you have the honor to be. We refrain, in order to have the parents of the young people formally announce the engagement. By doing this we get the full value of the to-be-continued-in-our-next suspense, for the first time utilized in a news story; and we also increase our reputation for gentlemanly conservatism, which prevents the refined reporter of the—of my paper from intruding into a family affair.”

“Will your paper be damned fool enough to—” began E. H. Merriwether, intentionally skeptical.

“It is not damned folly to extract all the juice contained in the scoop of the century—it is technical skill of a very high order. Now what happens? My esteemed contemporaries, morning and evening, chuck a fit and bounce their society editors. They then rush for the telephone and despatch their strongest photographers, sharpest sleuths, and entire dictagraph corps to the scene. They can't find Tom—because, as you know, he is in—he is out of town. And they can't find her—because I haven't said who she is. There remains you!”

“That won't do them any good,” said Mr. E. H. Merriwether, decisively; but he shuddered.

“Precisely! I banked on that. But, even if you did see them, what could you tell them? Deny what is bound to be confirmed in the next issue of my paper? You know better than to acquire a reputation for lying in the newspapers. No, siree! Your game is to deny yourself to all inquirers and say nothing. My esteemed contemporaries have now but one desire—to wit: to print the name and publish the portrait of your son's fiancÉe. Of course you see what happens then, don't you?”

The reporter looked at the iron-hearted E. H. Merriwether, with such pity in his eyes that the great little czar of the Southwestern Railroad for the first time in his life realized he was merely a man—a human being; an ordinary, every-day father; one drop in the vast ocean; one of the crowd temporarily aboveground and therefore exposed to the same sorrows and troubles and sore vexations as all mankind. His millions, his position in the world, his great work, his undoubted genius—could not avail even to rid him of annoyance. Can you imagine John D. Rockefeller living on Staten Island in June and unable to buy mosquito-netting—price, five cents a yard?

“What will happen?” asked the great millionaire, who was also a father.

“My intelligent colleagues, of course, will look for the lady. Where there is a strong demand the supply automatically offers itself for consumption. And what will the seven hundred and fifty alert young men, with great capacities for fictional art, who are temporarily assisting actress-ladies and self-paying authoresses and unprinted poetesses and fertilizer-manufacturers unmarried daughters, do? What will those estimable young artists, miscalled press agents, do when they encounter the demand for Tom's fiancÉe's photograph? What except 'Here she is!'—six thousand words, thirty-two poses, and a facsimile of a love-letter or two, to prove it! And then—chorus-ladies, poetesses, fair divorcÉes about to honor the vaudeville—” The reporter stopped—he had seen the look on E. H. Merri-wether's face. He felt sorry. “But it is true,” he said, defensively.

“Yes!” Tom's poor rich father felt cold all over.

The reporter pursued, more quietly: “You know the ingenuity of my colleagues, the great American respect for a millionaire's privacy, and the national sense of humor. Will your son's love-affair be discussed? Will it be discussed with the gentlemanly reticence and innate delicacy of feeling of my story?”

Mr. E. H. Merriwether never before realized that the law against homicide was even more absurd than an Interstate Commerce Commission order; but he had to bow to the inevitable. He was beginning to understand how Napoleon felt on the deck of the Bellerophon when on the way to St. Helena., Do you remember the picture? He nodded—not dejectedly, but also not far from it.

“Well, in a day or two or three, according to conditions; we come out with it. We print the lady's name and her portrait—possibly not the best of all her photographs, but the only one I could—”

“Who is she?” burst from the lips of the reporter's victim.

Instantly the reporter's face became very serious. “I feared so, Mr. Merriwether,” he said, very quietly.

“Look here, my boy!” interrupted Mr. Merriwether, with an earnestness that had in it a threat. “I don't know what your game is and I don't care. I'll admit right now that you are a very clever young man and probably not a crook; but I tell you calmly, quietly, without any threats, that you are not going to publish any damned-fool article about my family in any paper in New York.”

The reporter rose and looked straight into the unblinking eyes of the great financier. Then he said, slowly, and, the old fellow admitted, distinctly impressively:

“And I tell you, twice as quietly and ten times as calmly, without any fool threats, that all the daily newspapers in New York and Philadelphia, Chicago, San Francisco, Boston, and ten thousand other towns in the United States, Canada, Mexico, the Canal Zone, and countries in the Postal Union, are going to publish articles about your son Tom's engagement, and later on about his marriage. Understand once for all, that there are some things all your millions and all your will-power cannot do. This is one of them. It is the penalty of being a public character—or, if you prefer, of being an exceptionally great man. Do I understand that you have nothing to say about your son's coming marriage?”

E. H. Merriwether in less than five seconds thought of more than five thousand possibilities, all in connection with his son's marriage. Then he said, very slowly, fighting for time and a chance to escape:

“My son will marry whenever he and the young lady chiefly interested judge fit to do so. He and I are in perfect accord, as always.” Mr. Merriwether was looking into the too-fearless and too-intelligent gray-blue eyes of the reporter. Then he did what he did not often do in his Wall Street affrays—he capitulated. “Will you give me your word that you will not use for publication what I am about to tell you?”

“No, sir, I won't!” emphatically replied the reporter. “You might tell me something I already know and then you'd always think I had broken my word. I will not pledge myself not to print the name of your daughter-in-law-to-be; but anything that concerns you personally or your attitude toward your son's finacÉe, or hints of a family quarrel—or those things that offend a sensitive man—I promise not to print. You have some rights; but I also owe certain things to myself and my paper. I've been frank with you. You can be frank with me if you wish. I put it up to you.”

Mr. Merriwether, after a thoughtful pause, said: “Look here! I don't know anything about my son's engagement. I cannot swear he is not engaged, but I don't know that he is. It follows that I do not know the young lady. You don't have to print that, do you?”

The reporter gazed on the financier meditatively. Presently, instead of answering the question, he asked:

“Have you had no suspicion of any romance?”

“Well”—and it was plain that E. H. Merriwether was telling the truth, having made up his mind to that policy as being the wisest—“well, I have of late suspected that such a thing might be possible. It is, I will confess to you, a terrible predicament, because a man naturally cherishes certain hopes for his only son.” On Mr. Merriwether's face there was a quite human look of suffering.

“Of course,” said the reporter, apologetically, as though offering an excuse for a friend's misdeed—“of course a man in love is not always wise.”

“No. And though I have no intention or desire to bribe you, and though I would not presume to interfere with you in your professional activities or influence you by pecuniary considerations, you will pardon me for suggesting—”

The reporter did not let him go on. He rose and said, with real dignity:

“Mr. Merriwether, suppose we drop the matter right here?”

“You mean?”

“I will not print any story yet—on one condition.”

“Name it. I think likely I can meet it.”

“Give me your promise that you will give me an interview the next time I come to see you. It may be in a day or two or a week. I don't promise not to print the story, you understand, but it will give you time to—well, to see your son.”

E. H. Merriwether held out his hand and said: “I will see you any time you come. But let me say, as an older man, that if you should suffer any loss by not printing—”

“Oh no—I shall not suffer. I propose to print my story. I am simply deferring publication; but I thank you for the offer you were going to make. It shows more consideration and, therefore, far greater common sense than most men in your position habitually display before a reporter. I'll do even more—I'll give you a friendly tip.” He stopped talking and looked doubtfully at E. H. Merriwether.

“Thank you,” said Mr. Merriwether, with a remarkable mixture of gratitude, dignity, and anxiety. “I am listening.”

“Find out why he goes to 777 Fifth Avenue. There are some things a really intelligent father, poor or rich, should—” He caught himself.

“Please finish, my boy!” cried the great little man, almost entreatingly.

“There are just a few things”—the reporter was speaking very slowly and his voice was lowered—“which an intelligent father does not trust to others—not even to the most loyal confidential men—things that should be done by the father himself. The number is 777 Fifth Avenue!”

“I thank you, Mr.—”

“William Tully,” said the reporter.

“Mr. Tully, I thank you. I think you are throwing away time and brains in your present position, and if you should ever—”

“Thank you, sir. Don't be afraid. I shall not bother you by—”

“But I mean it,” said E. H. Merriwether.

The reporter smiled and said, “If you knew how often my fortune has been made by men whose story I have not printed you'd be deaf, too.”

“Young man, I sometimes forget favors, but not the possession of brains. I need them in my business.”

“Well, then, suppose you show your appreciation by telling the red-headed person in the outer office that he is to take in my card to you when I call again?”

“Certainly!” And the czar of the great Pacific & Southwestern system nearly slew Doyle by accompanying the reporter to the outer door and saying:

“Doyle, any time Mr. Tully comes to see me let me know instantly, no matter what I may be doing or who is with me. Understand?”

“Yes, sir!” gasped Doyle, looking terrifiedly at the sorcerer.

Tully! Irish! That was the reason, of course; but he was a wonder, all the same.

“Good day, Mr. Tully. I thank you. And don't forget my offer.”

Mr. Merriwether bowed as the door closed on Mr. William Tully and then, walking like a man in a trance, returned to his private office. He rang the push-button marked No. 1, and when McWayne appeared turned a haggard face to his private secretary.

“McWayne, that reporter has a story of Tom's engagement, but he wouldn't tell me who the girl is.”

“I don't believe it!” cried McWayne, with a not very intelligent intention of comforting his chief. At times the male Irish mind works femininely.

“Neither do I—and yet I do. It confirms Dr. Frauenthal's diagnosis. I guess he knows his business, after all. Well, the story will not be published yet. He acted pretty decently.”

McWayne wondered how much it had cost the old man, but he said, “Didn't he intimate—”

“That reporter knows his business,” cut in E. H. Merriwether. “He ought to be a dramatist. Have you heard from your men?”

“Yes, sir. Tom has gone to Boston. Two of them are with him. He suspects nothing.”

“What else?”

“They will let me know by long distance if anything happens.”

“If anything! Great Scott! isn't it enough that—Let me hear what they report—on the instant!”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, McWayne—” He hesitated.

McWayne, his face full of sincere solicitude, prompted, gently:

“Yes, chief?”

It was the first time he had ever used that word. It made his speech so friendly, so affectionately personal, that E. H. Merriwether said:

“Thank you, McWayne. I wish you would find out for me at once who lives in 777 Fifth Avenue.”

“Yes, sir,” said McWayne. “That's where—” He caught himself. .

“I am afraid so!” acquiesced the railroad czar, listlessly.

VIII

Within an hour McWayne walked into the private office. His chief closed his jaws—a weaker man would have clenched his fists—in anticipation.

“Breese & Silliman, the real-estate men, say they rented 777 Fifth Avenue, furnished, to a Madam Calderon—an American woman, widow of a Peruvian nitrate king. She came up here and asked Breese about a suitable location. She has a daughter she wishes to marry in America. She talked quite freely about her affairs. The house was for sale, but she leased if, furnished, with privilege of purchase. Belongs to the Martin-Schwenk Construction Company. The daughter is about thirty, dark, Spanish-looking, and fleshy; rather—er—inclined to make googoo eyes, as Breese says, in a kind of foreign way.”

“Go on,” commanded E. H. Merriwether.

“Mrs. Calderon said point-blank that she wished her daughter to marry a nice young man of wealth and position, preferably a blond. I gather that the agents were rather anxious to let the house and probably encouraged her. She has paid quarterly in advance, and her banking references are O. K.; but nothing about her personally is known to any one. That's all I could get.”

“Very well. Thank you, McWayne.”

The private secretary stood beside the desk, hesitated, and presently walked out. Shortly afterward, the great and ruthless E. H. Merriwether, full of perplexity and regret—and some remorse over his neglect of his only son for so many years—went uptown. He desired to know what to expect, in order to be able to think intelligently, and, therefore, to fight efficiently. How could he fight—not knowing what or whom to fight?

He told the chauffeur to wait, and then rang the bell of 777.

One of the four footmen whose faces had impressed Tom as being distinctly too intelligent for menials, opened the door.

“I wish to see Madam Calderon.”

“I beg pardon, sir. Have you an appointment?”

“No. Say it is Mr. Merriwether.”

“Mr. who, sir?”

Mr. Merriwether took out a card. The footman received it on a very elaborate silver-gilt card-tray and, pointing to a particularly uncomfortable, high-backed Circassian-walnut chair in the foyer, left the great little multimillionaire under the watchful eye of footman Number Two. This annoyed Mr. Merriwether. Nobody is altogether invulnerable.

The footman returned, with the card and the tray.

“Madam is not at home, sir; but her brother would be glad to see you, if you wish, sir. He is madam's man of affairs.”

“Very well.”

“If you please, sir, this way.” And the footman led the way to the door of the library, where Tom had been received so often.

“Mr. Edward H. Merriwether!” The emphasis on the first name made the little czar of the Southwestern roads think it was done in order to differentiate him from Mr. Thomas Merriwether. Even great men are not above thinking themselves clever.

He entered the room and took in its character at one glance, just as Tom had done. He became cool, watchful, alert, and observing, as he always did when he went into a fight. He looked at the man who was said to be the brother of the woman who had leased the house—the woman who had a daughter she wished to marry to a blond with money and position.

The man had a square chin and, even in repose, suggested power and self-control. Mr. Merriwether met the remarkably steady, unblinking gaze of two extremely sharp eyes, and recognized without any particular motion that he confronted a man of strength and resource, who, moreover, had the double strategical advantage of being in his own house and of not having sought this interview.

“Be seated, sir,” said the man, in the calm voice of one who is accustomed to obedience, even in trifles.

Mr. E. H. Merriwether sat down. He noticed little things, as well as big. He noted, for instance, that he had begun by doing exactly what this man told him to do. The man intelligently waited for Mr. E. H. Merriwether to speak. Mr. E. H. Merriwether did so. He said:

“I called to see Madam Calderon.”

“About?” The man spoke coldly.

Mr. E. H. Merriwether raised his eyebrows. He did it in order not to frown. There is no wisdom in needless antagonisms. His only son was concerned.

“About my son,” he said.

“Tommy?”

The great railroad magnate, accustomed to the deference even of the self-appointed owners of the United States, flushed with anger. Had things gone so far that such intimacy existed?

“I understand,” he said, trying to speak emotionlessly, “that my son visits this house.”

“Of his own volition, sir.”

“I did not think there was physical coercion; but, of course, as his father—” He stopped in the middle of the sentence.

This never before had happened to this man, who always knew what to do and what to say, and always did it and said it with the least expenditure of time and words; but, as a matter of fact, what could he say, and how?

“That relationship,” the man said, calmly, “often interferes with the exercise of what people formerly called common sense. Will you please do me a very great favor, sir?”

“A favor?” Mr. Merriwether, skilful diplomatist though he could be at times, now frowned in advance.

“Yes, Mr. Merriwether—indeed, two favors; or rather, three. First: Will you please ask me no questions now? Second: Will you please return to this house at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning? And third: Will you promise not to speak to your son about your visit here until after you have paid your second call, to-morrow?”

It flashed through Mr. Merriwether's mind that to grant the favors might expedite Tom's appalling marriage. He said, decisively:

“I cannot promise any of the things you ask.”

“Very well,” said the man, composedly. “Then, I take it, there is nothing more to be said.”

He rose politely, and as he did so pressed a button on the table. The footman appeared and held the door open for Mr. Merriwether to pass out.

The autocrat of fifteen thousand miles of railroad, with unlimited credit in the money-markets of the world, was not accustomed to being treated like this: but, precisely because he felt hot anger rising in tidal waves to his brow, he instantly became cool.

He remained sitting, and said, very politely:

“If you will allow me, sir, to tell you that my reasons—”

The man, who was still standing, held up a hand and broke in:

“And if you will allow me to tell you that I am neither a criminal nor a jackass I shall then proceed to say that nobody in this house has any intention of entering into any argument or controversy with you. I am actuated much less by personal considerations of my own than by a desire to avert from you eternal regrets and—er—unseemly displays of temper.”

E. H. Merriwether knew exactly what he would like to do to this man. What he said—very mildly—was:

“You must admit, sir, that your requests might be interpreted—”

“Oh, I see!” And the man smiled very slightly. “Well, suppose you take Tom to your office with you to-morrow morning, and keep him there while you come here? Tell him to wait for you, because you wish to have luncheon with him. I do not care to discuss my reasons—for example—for not wishing you to speak to Tom about this visit. I do not wish to wound your feelings; but I am not sure that you know Tom as well as a father ought to know his only son. And there are times when a man must be more than a father, when he must be a tactful man of the world, and a psychologist.”

Mr. Merriwether realized the force of this so clearly that he winced, but said nothing, since he could not admit such a thing aloud. The man proceeded coldly:

“If you are both an intelligent man and a loving father, you will promise what I ask—not for my sake, for yours. There are many things, Mr. E. H. Merriwether, that money does not cure, and that not even time can heal. Ask me nothing now; come here at eleven to-morrow morning, and in the mean time do not speak to Tom about himself—or your fears.”

“If you were only not so—er—well, so damned mysterious—” And Mr. Merriwether forced himself to smile pleasantly.

“Ah—if!” exclaimed the man, nodding. “Do you promise?”

“Yes!” answered Mr. Merriwether.

He had made up his mind that Tom would not be abducted. As for worse things, if Tom had not already committed matrimony, he could not very well do it in his father's private office. It was wise to keep Tom virtually a prisoner without his knowledge. And parental opposition has so often served merely to add gasoline to the flame of love that one father would not even whisper his objections.

He bowed and left the room, angry that nothing had been accomplished, relieved that within twenty-four hours the matter would probably be settled, and not quite so confident of the power of money as he had been for many years.

IX

Tom arrived at his home early enough to have his bath at the usual hour. Though he had never been asked to account for his movements, he nevertheless made it a point to breakfast with his father. He would do so to-day. There was no occasion to say he had been to Boston or that he had slept in a Pullman.

As a matter of fact, he had not slept well. The stateroom seemed full of those elusive flower-fragrances that always made him think of her, particularly sweet peas—a beautiful flower, and of such delicate colors, he now remembered, who had not thought of them for years. He really loved them, he now discovered. Their odor always tinged his. thoughts with a vague spirit of romance; and this, in turn, in some subtle way, rendered him more susceptible to the lure of adventure. It almost made him feel like a boy.

For all the stimulating reaction of his cold plunge, Tom looked a trifle tired about the eyes at breakfast.

Mr. Merriwether looked at his son with eyes that also looked tired; said, “Good morning, Tom!” in his usual tone of voice, and hid behind his newspaper. Instead of reading about the absurd demands of the railroad workers all over the United States for higher wages, he was thinking that he had never allowed anybody to do his work for him, because he had always intended that Tom should succeed him. He had at one time fully intended to train Tom for the succession, to have him learn railroading from brake-man up.

Indeed, the boy after leaving college had seemed much taken with the idea and listened with interest to his father's talks about his plans and desires and hopes. But with the great boom, that wonderful era of amazing reorganizations and stupendous consolidations, the great little man had been swamped by the flood of gold that poured into Wall Street.

And gold, as usual, had been ruthless in its demands on the great little man's time. For years he had averaged a net personal profit of a million a month; but it was not that he wished to make more money. It was that his time no longer belonged to himself; it was not his family's, but his associates'—not his only son's, but his many syndicates'. And he had devoted himself to the welfare of his syndicates and had written a dazzling page in the annals of Wall Street.

But what about his son's present and the future of the Merriwether roads? If Tom died, the Merri-wether dream would follow him, but that would be a natural death at the hands of God. If Tom lived and refused to be a Merriwether, the death of the Merriwether dreams would be by slow strangulation. In short, hell!

His promise to the brother of the woman who had a daughter that might prove to be the executioner of his dreams stared him in the face. The situation called for tact and skill and superhuman self-control. He liked to fight in the open; but this was not a battle for more millions; it involved more than the deglutition of a rival railroad.

McWayne had reported that Tom had acted like a lunatic when he could not secure the room in the Hotel Lorraine that had been engaged by Mrs. Calderon and daughter. The only ray of light was that Tom had not talked to the ladies.

“Tom,” asked Mr. Merriwether, casually, “have you anything on special for this morning?”

Tom had in mind a visit to 777 Fifth Avenue, at which he promised himself to end the affair; but he answered:

“N-no.”

“I mean,” said the father, speaking even more casually, because he noted the hesitancy, “anything that could not be done just as well in the afternoon.”

“Oh no, I have nothing special; in fact, nothing at all,” said Tom.

Mr. Merriwether saw in his reply merely Tom's way of not declaring his intention to see the girl.

“Then I wish you would come down-town with me. I have some papers I want you to look over, and we'll have luncheon together. What do you say?”

A prisoner accused of murder in the first degree does not listen to the jury's verdict with more interest than E. H. Merriwether waited for Tom's reply, for at this crisis he realized that he had not been in his son's confidence in those other important little crises of boyhood that breed in sons the habit of confiding in fathers.

“Sure thing!” said Tom', cheerfully.

Though thus relieved of some of his fears, there remained with E. H. Merriwether the determination that Tom had not volunteered any information. The little czar of the Pacific & Southwestern was so intelligent that in general he was fundamentally just. He did not exactly blame Tom for not confiding in him, but, also, he did not blame himself. And this was because he had habituated himself to paying for his mistakes in dollars. What could not be paid off in dollars was never a mistake, though it might well be a misfortune.

They went down-town together. Mr. Merriwether took Tom into one of his half-dozen private offices, made him sit down in one of those over-comfortable arm-chairs that you paradoxically find in busy Wall Street offices, and said to him very seriously:

“My son, here is the history of the Pacific & Southwestern system from its very start. It goes back to the early stage-line days and is brought up to to-day. I had it prepared in anticipation of an ill-advised Congressional investigation. I have thus far succeeded in staving off the investigation, not because I was afraid of it or because it might hurt me, but because the market was in bad shape to stand the alarmist rumors and canards and threats that always go with such affairs. Other people would have quite unnecessarily lost money. As soon as the investigation cannot be used as a bear club I'll let up opposing it. I'll even help it.” He paused and gave to Tom a book bound in limp black morroco. “I want you to read this book because it is written with complete frankness in order to spike certain political guns. You will get in it the full story of what has been done and what we hope still to be allowed to accomplish. When you get through with it you'll know as much about the system as I do!”

The old man had spoken quietly and impressively. Tom was so pleased at having something to occupy his mind and keep it from dwelling on the girl he had never seen and the exasperating scoundrel at 777 Fifth Avenue that his face lighted up with joy.

“You could not have given me anything to do that I'd like better, dad!” he said, with such obviously sincere enthusiasm that Mr. Merriwether felt profoundly grateful for this blessing.

Then came the inevitable reaction and with it the thought: “Have I gained a successor only to lose him to some—”

He shook his head, clenched his jaws, and looked at his watch. It was not yet time to go to fight for the possession of his son. He had much to do before he left his office to go to 777 Fifth Avenue.

“Tom,” he said, “'you stay here until I return—will you?”

“You bet!” smiled Tom, looking at the thickness of the system's history.

“I have a meeting or two before luncheon, but I'll try not to let them interfere.”

“Any time before three, boss,” said his son, cheerfully.

His heir and successor, but, above all and everything, his son! There was no sacrifice he would not make for this boy to keep him from blighting his own career—and his father's hopes, he added, with the selfishness of real love.

Knowing that Tom was safely imprisoned and could not marry at least for a few hours, he was able to concentrate his mind on his railroad's affairs. He disposed of the more urgent matters. At ten-forty he sent for McWayne.

“I'm going to 777 Fifth Avenue.”

“Again?” inadvertently said the private secretary.

Mr. Merriwether looked at him.

McWayne went on to explain: “I've had a man watching it since we found Tom called there, just before going to Boston.”

“Right! I expect to be back in time to lunch with Tom; but if I should be delayed—” He paused.

“Yes, sir?”

“—delayed beyond one o'clock have luncheon brought from the Meridian Club and tell Tom I wish him to stay until I return. This is important.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I think that is all.”

“If no word is received from you by—” McWayne paused.

Mr. Merriwether finished. “By two o'clock, come after me. But always remember the newspapers!”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'll telephone before two in case I expect to stay beyond that hour.”

“Very well, sir.”

E. H. Merriwether put on his hat, familiar to the world through the newspaper caricaturists—and walked toward the door. Then he did what he never before had done—he repeated an order! He said to McWayne, “Look after Tom!”

“Yes, sir.”

Then he went to 777 Fifth Avenue to learn whether Tom was to be his pride and successor or his sorrow and dream-slayer.

X

E. H. Merriwether drove to the house of mystery in his motor, told the chauffeur to wait, and rang the bell. One of the over-intelligent-looking footmen opened the door.

“I wish to see Mr.—whoever is master in this house.”

“Yes, sir!”

The footman led the way. At the door of the library he knocked twice, sharply, then, after a pause, once, and then twice again. He waited; and presently, having evidently heard some answer not audible to the financier, he opened the door and announced:

“Mr. E. H. Merriwether!”

Why had there been any necessity for signals? Why such cheap theatrical claptrap? To make him think things? These questions in Mr. Merriwether's mind showed that the mysterious master of the house knew the advantage of suggesting the important sense of difference.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning,” answered E. H. Merriwether, and looked about the room.

No girl!

It began to irritate him. The man intensified the feeling by speaking very deliberately, as one to whom time is no object:

“Will you not be seated, Mr. Merriwether?”

“I am a very busy man,” began the autocrat of fifteen thousand miles of railroad.

“Sit down, anyhow,” imperturbably suggested the man.

The autocrat sat down. He said, “But please understand that.”

“I won't keep you any longer because you are sitting. Shall we get down to business?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Merriwether”—the man spoke almost dreamily—“do you know why I asked you to call to-day at eleven?”

“No.”

“Because when you were here yesterday it was after banking hours.”

“And?” The little czar was in a hurry to finish.

“You, Mr. Merriwether, are one of those fortunate mortals about whom the newspapers do not lie.”

“Oh, am I? I take it you haven't seen a newspaper in twelve years.” Mr. Merriwether, after all, was an American. His sense of humor helped to make him great.

“I've read every line that has ever been printed about you—I had to, in order to study you exhaustively. I find that you are acknowledged by both friends and foes to be an intelligent man.”

“Oh yes!”

“A very intelligent man,” continued the man.

“And therefore?” said the very intelligent man.

“And, therefore, I now ask you to give me one million dollars.”

Mr. E. H. Merriwether never so much as batted an eyelid. He kept his eyes fixed on the stranger's eyes. He repeated, a trifle impatiently:

“And?”

“A certified check will do.”

“Come to the point. I am a busy man,” said Mr. Merriwether.

The man looked at the little financier admiringly. Then he said, “You mean you wish to know why you should give the million, or what you will get for it?”

“Either! Both!”

“You should give it because it is I who ask it. You will get for it what is very, very cheap at a million.”

“My dear sir, we'd do business quicker if you'd play show-down.”

Now that it was a matter of money, of paying, of trading, Tom's father felt a great sense of relief. Still, there was Tom's unhappiness to consider. Poor boy!

“I want you to give me a million so that in return I may give you a daughter-in-law.”

“You mean you will not give me a daughter-in-law if I give you a million, don't you?”

“I am in the habit of meaning what I say. The sooner you learn that, the quicker we'll close the deal. I mean that for a million dollars I'll give you a daughter-in-law.”

Mr. Merriwether shook his head. It was plainly to be seen on his face that every moment spent in this room was a sad waste of time.

“Isn't it worth a million to you?” asked the man, as if he knew it was.

Mr. Merriwether proceeded to look as though it were worth even less than a Santo Domingo mining concession. Then he said, with finality:

“No.”

The man rose.

“Then,” he spoke indifferently, “come back when it is. I'll ask you to excuse me. I, also, am a busy man. Good day, sir.”

Mr. Merriwether rose and bowed. He looked straight into the man's very shrewd eyes, smiled very slightly—and sat down again.

“Do you mean,” he asked, very pleasantly, for his bluff had been called, “Miss Calderon?”

The man sat down.

“Oh no!” he answered, unsmilingly.

“No? Then?” Mr. Merriwether was so surprised that he forgot not to show it.

“I am sorry you are a busy man, because what I have to say can not be hurried. First, you must chase from your mind all thoughts of Wall Street, high finance, railroad systems—and fill it with love!”

Mr. Merriwether looked alarmed. Would it all end with a Biblical text and an exhortation to endow some sort of a Home?

“You can do this,” pursued the man, imperturbably, “by thinking of your son Tom. He is your only son. You should love him. Once your mind is attuned to thoughts of love, you will be able to understand me more easily. Concentrate on love!” The man leaned back in his chair as though he were certain the attuning process would consume an hour, this being, alas! a Wall Street man; but Merriwether said, very promptly:

“I am ready for chapter two.”

“I doubt it. Love! The love of father for son, of son for mother, of son for wife, of son for father!”

“I understand. My mind works quickly. Go on!”

“Do you by any chance happen to know that your son is in love?”

“Yes. Where is the girl?”

“It isn't the girl. It's just girl.”

“Oh, hell! Quit vaudevilling!”

“There is no girl who is the girl. There never was. There doesn't have to be any!”

Quite obviously this man was a lunatic—with the eyes of a particularly sane person. If there was no girl Tom was in no danger of marriage. A million for not marrying an undesirable person, yes, but a million for a daughter-in-law, when Tom was not in love!

“Only,” thought Mr. Merriwether, “in case I have the selecting of her! And if I pick her I don't have to pay.”

“And yet,” said the man, musingly, “Tom loves her!”

Mr. Merriwether's perplexity was fast rising to the dignity of anger.

“If there had been a girl of Tom's own class,” the man went on, as if talking to himself, “why shouldn't he have been seen in public with her?” Mr. Merriwether was listening now with his soul. “And if this girl were of the other class—that financial geniuses, alas! sometimes have to accept for daughters-in-law—a nice, vivacious chorus-lady, or a refined Reno graduate, or worse—she would have insisted on being seen in public with Tom, to show her power and to raise the paternal bid-price for a trip to Europe—alone!”

The man ceased to speak and began to nod his head slowly, his gaze on the rug at his feet. Mr. Merriwether could stand it no longer.

“If there is no girl, what in blazes do I get for my million?”

“Your pick of eight.”

“Eight what?”

“Eight perfect daughters-in-law!”

A thought shot through Mr. Merriwether's mind: Was any form of insanity contagious? He looked at the lunatic. The eyes were sane, cold, shrewd, mind-reading eyes full of a sardonic humor.

“They are all,” added the man, as if he wished to dispel unworthy suspicion, “in love.”

“With Tom?”

“With love—like Tom!”

“With love—like Tom!” helplessly repeated Mr. E. H. Merriwether.

“Your mind”—the man spoke very slowly and distinctly, as if he wished to deprive Mr. Merriwether of every excuse for not understanding him—“does not seem to be working this morning with its usual efficiency!”

“No!” admitted Mr. Merriwether, sadly. “If you'd only use words of one syllable I think I could follow you better.”

“It isn't that. It is that your mind was not attuned in the beginning to the thought of love, and, therefore, could not follow my words. You compel me to spend time in explaining the obvious. Listen! If you wish Tom to become the heir to your name, to your railroad, to your work, and to all the dreams you have dreamed about your work and about your son; if you want him to be your successor, to continue your work, to perpetuate the name and influence of Merriwether in his country—I say, if you wish all this, he must do one thing, and you must see that he does it. And that one thing, Mr. Merriwether, is for him to marry wisely. Do you get that?”

“Yes,” answered Mr. Merriwether, very simply.

“If he doesn't, it will be death to your hopes, a tragic break in the Merriwether succession. No, don't shake your head. Admit it. Face it frankly. I know it. I know that you also know it. Can you expect me to believe that you want Tom to be the fool husband of a fool girl whose influence on him—”

“Tom isn't that kind,” interrupted E. H. Merri-wether.

“All men are that kind. Does history record the case of a man, greater even than E. H. Merriwether, who, when it came to women, was an utter ass? Yes, of a thousand; in fact, the stronger the man, the weaker she makes him—the better his brain, the worse his folly. And the cure? When an intelligent man realizes that he is a hopeless ass over one woman he realizes that his only escape is by the suicide route. No! It's much cheaper for you to pay the million. Oblige me by thinking. Isn't it cheaper to pay a million?”

He held up a silencing hand, as though he wished Mr. Merriwether to spend a full hour thinking of the bargain he was getting. Mr. Merriwether thought—quickly and accurately as was his wont. And he admitted to himself that it was indeed cheap at a million. But there must be value received. Promises, however plausible, are no more to be capitalized blindly than threats. It depends on who promises, and why; and also on what is promised. He thought of offering a smaller sum and of going through the usual preliminaries of a trade, but decided to be frank.

“If you can deliver the goods, I'll pay the million.” And, after a pause, he added, “Gladly!”

“I banked on that when I decided you ought to contribute a million to our fund,” said the man, simply. “I studied you and your fortune and your vulnerability, and I decided to attack via Tom. This was easier and cheaper than a stock-market campaign.”

The man somehow looked as though he had said all that was necessary; but Mr. Merriwether reminded him:

“You must prove your ability to deliver the goods.”

“I thought”—the man seemed mildly surprised—“we had.”

“Certainly not. The million hasn't stirred.”

“You are a brave man, Mr. Merriwether.”

Mr. Merriwether laughed, and said:

“What should I fear? People don't murder a man like me and get away with it—not when the motive is money. Political assassination, perhaps; but not for a few dollars—especially when my heirs would spend millions to see that justice did not miscarry.” He shook his head, smilingly.

“My dear sir, when we decided to go into the gold-mining business—”

“Gold-mining business!”

“Exactly! We thought to save time and effort by getting our gold already coined. Our general staff studied various methods—the ticker, for instance, and legislative attacks on your roads; but we went back to Tom. It is, of course, nearly as stupid to overestimate as to underestimate one's opponent; so, while we provided against every contingency arising from your undoubted possession of a resourceful and fearless mind, we also thought—please take note—that you might display stupidity; and we prepared for it. Such as, for instance, in case you point-blank said No! We have also provided ways of preventing you and your uncaptured millions from hurting us. Of course we could make the stock-market pay us for the trouble of kidnapping you or of murdering you. Don't you see clearly what you would do if you were in my place?”

“Oh yes—I see it clearly; but I don't believe you could do what I could in your place?”

“Nobody is free from vanity, for everybody seems to be a natural monopolist when it comes to brains. You are kidnapped at this very moment, aren't you?”

“People know I am here—”

“Oh yes! We expect to have you telephone McWayne presently not to expect you to lunch, and that we have extended every facility to his detectives for having this house under surveillance. We kidnapped the great Garrettson and kept him out of reach of the great world of finance long enough to enable us to cash in. Not only that, but he never told how we did it. You remember when Steel broke to—”

“You didn't do that!” exclaimed E. H. Merri-wether.

“Oh yes, we did; and I'll tell you how.” And the man briefly outlined the case for him.

E. H. Merriwether listened with much interest. When the man made an end of speaking, the financier shook his head skeptically, which made the man ask: “You don't believe it?”

“No!” answered Mr. Merriwether.

“Nevertheless, it is so. We also might have engineered in your case some deal such as that by which we compelled Ashton Welles to disgorge some of the money he had no business to have.” And he proceeded to enlighten the financier.

“Very clever!” said Mr. Merriwether.

“Rather neat!” modestly acquiesced the man. “Suppose we had decided to kidnap you? The first thing to do is to get you here. Well, you are here.”

“How will you make money by that?” asked the financier, smiling.

“We don't expect to. We have not planned to make money by kidnapping you. Nevertheless, you must admit it can be made a very expensive matter for you. But please let me kidnap you without interruption!”

“I beg your pardon!” said Mr. Merriwether, gravely.

It struck him that the possession of a sense of humor makes a crook ten times more dangerous. It was what made the reporter, Tully, really formidable.

“We assume that you foresaw the danger to yourself in coming alone to this house. You'd employ private detectives to watch it at ten dollars a day a man, exactly as you have had your son watched the moment we decided it was time for you to begin the watching. McWayne, your efficient private secretary, is ready to move to your rescue. I don't see what else you could have done to protect yourself that we have not provided for.”

“The police!” mildly suggested Mr. Merriwether.

“And the reporters!” mocked the man. “Pshaw! We know what we are doing. Why, we have rehearsed your kidnapping and even your death. Our ablest members have in turn impersonated you—put themselves in your place and fought us. I will not bore you with more details, and I admit that the human mind cannot foresee accidents; but we have studied how your mind would work. Suppose you assume that you are kidnapped and beyond the possibility of help from your friends. Shall I tell you what we have done to make Tom marry one of our eight desirable candidates?”

“If you still wish that million.”

“Having decided to attack through Tom, we studied him and his ancestry on both sides. We easily learned that he had never had a serious love-affair, and that he was imaginative and adventurous, like yourself. There were many young women who would have liked to become your daughter-in-law—too many. That was Tom's trouble. But our problem was really made easier by that. We simply had to turn his thoughts to love and to one girl. We therefore did.”

“How?”

“We got him here. I piqued his curiosity and made the affair an extraordinary one by saying all we wished him to do was to answer one question. As we had rather expected, he would not come; but, of course, we had foreseen that, and so we got him here in one of our own taxicabs.”

“How?”

“We telephoned him that the doctor said he should come instantly, and that you were not really in danger. We don't believe in lies; but we took pains that no other cab should be in front of the club when we telephoned him from the corner drug-store. Attention to details, my dear sir, always brings home the bacon. Having roused the spirit of adventure in a remarkable way, I then asked him the great question. What do you think it was?”

Tom's father shook his head.

“It was this: Where did you spend your summer at the end of your freshman year? He told me. Then I gave him a box made to order for me by a French expert, which would deceive other experts so long as we did not try to sell it. Anybody can imitate the goldwork of any period. In all the museums of the world you will find fakes. Attention to details! I was prepared to have him show that box to local experts. I assumed he would do so, being a Merriwether and, therefore, intelligently curious.”

“Box with what?” asked Mr. Merriwether, also intelligently curious.

“Wait! When your son told me where he spent his summer at the end of his freshman year I knew he was then about nineteen—too young to think of marriage, but old enough to think of love. He had for the first time in his life been free from home influences and direct parental supervision. He was bound to regard himself as a man of the world and think of innocent flirtations as a manly art. Being in that frame of mind, and at the same time being a nice, rich, good-looking chap, all the girls would naturally make a dead set for him. Their numbers would keep him from having one love-affair. All love-affairs at twenty are much the same. A boy always begins by being in love with love. Indeed, I believe twenty-year love to be exclusively a literary passion—that, is, boys get it from reading about it. Of course I studied time, period, locality, and manifold probabilities; and, therefore, I sent him on a mission that suggested love—love for the one girl that Fate intended him to love and to marry. In order to fix, accentuate, and accelerate his love-thinking I used the perfume of sweet peas.”

“How does that work?”

“I picked out sweet peas because they are found everywhere. Their odor is strong and characteristic. He must have inhaled that odor thousands of times when he was flirting with pretty girls the summer he spent at Oleander Point with Dr. Bonner.”

“Yes; but about suggesting—”

“I advise you to read up on the psychology of odor associations. You will learn that there is a very close relation between the olfactory sense and the desire to love. Oliver Wendell Holmes declared that memory, imagination, old sentiments, and associations are more readily reached through the sense of smell than by almost any other channel; and, also, that 'olfactory impressions tend to be associated with a sum-total of feeling-tone.' This has been known for thousands of years. A very interesting paper was written by Mackenzie, of Johns Hopkins. If you read it you will know more than I can now take the time to tell you. The Orient understands the value of perfumes in lovemaking, and I could tell you amazing things; but I will refer you to Cabanis, Dadisett, Hobbes, Jaworski, Jwanicki, Schiff, Wolff, and Zwaardemaker. If you wish, my secretary will prepare an exhaustive bibliography of the subject for you.”

“No, thanks,” said Mr. Merriwether. “But I still don't understand—”

The man sighed. Then he said, “I'll tell you, of course.” He then told Tom's father about the message in the dark that Tom had carried.

“But he couldn't believe it!” exclaimed Mr. Merriwether.

“No; he couldn't—but he did. Of course I have taken you behind the scenes—-that is, I have opened your eyes and turned your head in the proper direction and held it firmly there and shouted, 'Look!' And of course you see the machinery standing still and you can't imagine it in motion. You are not as imaginative as I thought you were.”

“Huh!” said E. H. Merriwether, thoughtfully. Then after a pause he said: “I see the wheels revolving. Ingenious!”

“More than that, practical! My object in having Tom fall in love with love, suggesting that there was one girl born to be his bride, accentuated by my use of the sweet-peas odor as a leit-motif, was to have something to offer you which would be cheap at a million. The next step was to make Tom do foolish things—for effect on you. First, to make you fear Tom was crazy. I had a girl who knew young Waters talk to him about Tom's new and alarming queerness and suggest that he telephone to Mr. E. H. Merriwether. Of course Waters wouldn't telephone—and of course I did. And, of course, if you had disbelieved or suspected you would have sent for young Mr. Waters and he would have denied the telephone, but admitted the queer actions of Tom and the fact that people were talking about them. That would have allayed any suspicion you might have entertained. So I stage-managed the opera scene and the Boston trip to make you fear the worst. In that frame of mind you could be induced to come here voluntarily. I sent Tully to you. You had to come!”

“Very clever!” said Mr. Merriwether, with a thoughtful absence of enthusiasm.

“Therefore,” continued the man as if he had not heard the other's interpolation, “your son, being full of the thought of love and, even worse, of marrying the mate that Fate selected for him five million years ago, is now ready to marry any girl that smells of sweet peas. We thought that, instead of vulgarly extracting the million from you by torture or threats, we would place you in our debt by perpetuating the Merriwether dynasty. Hence the preparation of eight very nice girls—three of them in your own set, three others children of people you know, and the remaining two equally desirable but less historical, as it were.”

“Who are they?” If Mr. Merriwether was to pay a million he might as well see the label.

“Cynthia, Agnes, and Isabel, daughters respectively of Gordon Hammersly, William Murray, and Vanderpoel Woodford. Any objections?”

“No; but you can't—”

“Yes, I can. Also, Louise Emlen, daughter of Marbury Emlen, the lawyer—”

“He's a crook!” interrupted Mr. Merriwether.

“He doubtless interfered with one of your deals; I see you respect him. He's a crank, but she is a brick. And a Miss Lythgoe, daughter of Professor Lythgoe, of Columbia, the most beautiful girl in New York. Ramona Ogden; her father is Dr. Ogden, the lung specialist; her mother was a Jewess. The remaining two are of humble birth. But all of them are healthy and beautiful, plenty of honesty, brains, and, above all, imagination. Any one of them will not only make Tom happy, but will make him a worthy successor of a great man. And such grandchildren as they will give you! I envy you!” The man spoke with such fervent sincerity that E. H. Merriwether merely said:

“It is a risky business, even though the chances appear to be—”

“That's why we ask one million dollars—because we have eliminated the risk. Very cheap. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Merriwether, grimly.

“Then, will you kindly—”

“Yes; I will kindly tell you that you are a damned fool! You've wasted my time. I'm going to my office, and if I don't have you put in jail it will be because I don't want the publicity. But don't push me too far or I'll do it anyhow!” And Mr. E. H. Merriwether rose.

“Sit down!” said the man, with a pleasant smile.

“Go to hell!” snarled the czar of the Pacific & Southwestern, and looked at the man with the eyes that Sam Sharpe once said reminded him of a mink's when it kills for the sheer love of killing.

For all reply the man clapped his hands sharply twice. Four men—the over-intelligent-looking footmen—came from behind the heavy plush portiÈres. Also, the ascetic-looking man who had held the glass of acid in the taxicab and had brought Tom into the house the first time. The ascetic-looking man held a cornet to his lips, and his lungs were filled with still unblown blasts.

“Three weeks ago, Mr. Merriwether,” explained the mysterious master of the house, “this worthy artist began to practise on his beautiful instrument at exactly this time every morning. This was in anticipation of the morning when you should be here—the idea being to drown your cries. The neighbors have complained and I have promised to play pianissimo; but a few loud blasts, which will do the trick, will be forgiven. Attention to details, Mr. Merriwether! Ready!”

The cometist inflated his lungs and held the comet to his lips in readiness. The footmen seized Mr. Merriwether by the arms and legs, one man to each limb.

“Doctor!” called the master.

A sixth man came from behind the portiÈres. He had some tin cans in his hand—plainly labeled ether—and also a cylinder of compressed laughing-gas and an inhaler.

“Expert! Anesthetics!” said the man, curtly, to Mr. Merriwether. “We propose to take you out of this house if we kidnap you. If we decide to kill you we have arranged to do it right here at home. I think we'll kidnap you. A week or two will make you amenable to reason. We realize, of course, that every day you spend under our hospitable roof will make it a little bit more difficult to get the million into our clutches. Would you like to know how we propose to kidnap you and get away with it?”

“Yes,” replied Mr. E. H. Merriwether, with a pleasant smile.

“Tell our Mr. E. H. Merriwether to come in,” said the man to the cometist, who thereupon disappeared and presently returned, followed by a man made up to resemble the great financier.

The task was rendered easy by the famous flat-brimmed hat, with the crown like a truncated cone, so familiar to newspaper-readers through the cartoonists' efforts. The resemblance was not striking enough to deceive at close range, but it probably would work at a distance.

“Walk like him!” commanded the master.

The fake Mr. Merriwether walked up and down the room with the curious swaggering, jockey-like jauntiness of the little railroad man. From time to time he snapped his fingers impatiently in the same characteristic way Mr. E. H. Merriwether almost always used when giving an order to subordinates.

“That will do!” said the man, with a broad grin at the impersonator of the little financial giant. The double left the room—still walking À la E. H. M.

“I have had that man—an actor of about your build with a gift of mimicry—coached for weeks to imitate you. We told him it was a joke and guaranteed him an appearance before the most select audience in New York at one of Mrs. Garrettson's world-famous functions. We pledged him to a secrecy so natural, under the circumstances, as to rouse no suspicions. A few minutes ago we sent a footman to tell your chauffeur to go away and return at one. He wouldn't do it. The footman said the boss said so. Your man retorted that he took orders from only the boss himself—especially when countermanding previous orders.

“So our Mr. Merriwether went out to the front door, yelled 'One!' in your voice, and snapped his finger at the intelligent chauffeur, who thereupon beat it. But the sleuth remains. It makes us laugh! But, after all, since we have provided for him, it would be a pity not to go through the entire program. Does this bore you?”

“Must I tell the truth?” asked Mr. Merriwether, anxiously.

“Yes.”

“I can stand more.” In point of fact, Mr. Merriwether was sure the situation was serious for him. That is why he joked about it.

“Over six months ago we opened an antique-shop on Fourth Avenue. We had the usual truck. Also we have had this antique-dealer—who is your humble servant—go from house to house on the Avenue offering to buy or exchange those antiques of which people have grown tired. We even asked you. We have offered such good prices and such excellent swaps that we have taken antiques from some of the wealthiest houses on the Avenue. Also we have made a practice of importing antiques from Europe, which we auction off every two weeks. The money we get we deposit in various banks, and then we buy bills on Paris. The banks now know us. Remember that—it is important. Well, we also have an exact copy of your motor, even to the initials in the door panels. Pretty soon we send for our Merriwether motor and our E. H. Merriwether emerges from this house and gets into his car and off he goes—and the watching sleuth with him.”

“But if there should be two, and one stay?”

“Then number two will see not long afterward an elaborately carved Gothic chest taken from here into the antique-dealer's wagon—a wagon now known to the traffic squad. We carry you away and lock you in a small sound-proof room, to get to which people would have to move out of the way a lot of heavy pieces of furniture. There is no question of our ability to kidnap you and to keep you a prisoner. I tell you we have paid attention to details persistently and intelligently. Meantime what does Sam Sharpe do to the stock-market? And Northrup Ashe? How much will a month's absence from your office cost you?”

“Not half as much as it will cost you when I get out.”

“And if you don't get out?”

For reply Mr. E. H. Merriwether grinned broadly.

“My dear Mr. Merriwether”—the man spoke very seriously now—“we had not really expected such unintelligent skepticism from you; but, as we prepared for everything, we, of course, prepared for even crass stupidity on your part. In demonstrating our power to do what I say some painful moments will be your portion. This I regret more than I can say. Just now our problem is to prove our complete physical control of you and also our utter indifference to your feelings. I am going to do what will make you hate me to the murder point. In deliberately making a violent enemy of a man like you we pay ourselves the compliment of thinking ourselves absolutely fearless. I propose to have you spanked—to whip you as if you were a bad little boy. We shall at first use a shingle on you—undraped. You may begin when ready, James.”

“Sir,” said one of the footmen, very respectfully, to Mr. E. H. Merriwether, “will you kindly take off your coat and waistcoat, preliminary to the removal of your trousers?”

Mr. E. H. Merriwether tried to smile, but desisted when he saw that the men's faces had taken on a grim look—as if they knew that after the whipping it would be a fight to the death. They somehow conveyed an impression that, though they would not stop at murder, they nevertheless appreciated the gravity of the offense.

“We know,” said the master, solemnly, “that for every blister we raise you will gladly spend a million to clap us into jail. Do you really wish to be spanked and to hate us for it for the rest of your life?”

“No.”

“The alternative is the million—or death.”

“You can't kill me and get away with it.”

“Oh yes—even easier than kidnapping. I'll show you how we'll do it.” He rose and took from one of the drawers of the table a small, morocco-covered medicine-case, opened it, and showed Mr. Merri-wether a lot of small tubes tightly stoppered. “Cultures!” explained the man—“typhoid; bubonic plague; anthrax; Bacillus mallei—that's glanders—meningitis; Asiatic cholera; and others. This, for instance—number thirteen—is the virus of tetanus. Inoculation with an ordinary culture would take days; but with this virus it will take hours. What a wonderful thing science is! You know what tetanus is?”

“Yes,” answered Mr. Merriwether, calmly, “lockjaw.”

“Exactly! Well, this will lock your jaws, and all your millions won't be able to pry them open for you, and all the antitoxin injections won't help you. You will have your consciousness almost to the last—and you will not make yourself understood. The risus sardonicus, which is a most unpleasant sort of grin resulting from your inability to smile naturally, will linger in the memory of Tom to his death. You really ought to have a moving-picture film of your last hours taken as a warning to those stupid millionaires whose plunder we would recover. And, of course, I have here seven poisons, of which prussic acid is the mildest and slowest. Will you please assume the fact of your death?”

“I'll do that much to please you,” said Mr. Mer-riwether. He still believed that murder would not be profitable to these men and hence did not believe they would go that far.

“Would you like to know how we propose to dispose of the body?”

“I might as well see everything,” he answered, in a resigned tone of voice. The man looked at him admiringly, and said:

“Come on!”

They led the great E. H. Merriwether to the cellar. There he saw that the furnace coal had been taken out of its bin and put in the adjoining compartment. The plank floor had been taken up, and what looked like a short trench—or a grave—had been dug. Outside stood a pile of crushed stone, some bags of cement, some bundles of steel rods, a section of five-inch iron soilpipe with a mushroom-head trap at one end, and concrete-workers' tools.

“After we make absolutely sure that you are dead we throw a lot of soft mortar into the grave, deposit the corpse, and then pour in more cement—so that you will be completely surrounded by it. It will make it very difficult indeed to recognize you when they try to chip away the hard cement—if they ever try! Then we fill the grave up to the top with concrete, using plenty of steel rods—not to re-enforce the concrete at all, but to make it very hard digging with a pick.

“We also stick the soilpipe into the—er—cavity in order to account for the disturbed pavement. Intelligent searchers—your son and his detectives—will assume it is plumbing—and seek no further. We replace the plank flooring in the bin and fill it up with coal, thereby further obliterating all traces of your grave.

“We have provided for that part, you see. Why, my dear Mr. Merriwether, what we really do to you is confer immortality on you. We elevate you to the rank of one of the mysteries. Charlie Ross and E. H. Merriwether! Just assume that we'll do what I say. Very well! Now, visualize the search made for you. Endow your people with superhuman ingenuity. Useless!”

The man waved a hand toward Mr. Merriwether; but Mr. Merriwether said:

“You assume that the search will be exclusively for me—but they will also search for you!”

“My dear sir, that is unkind of you!” The man spoke reproachfully. “We know that when we go into the plunder-recovery business we must guard against the chief contributory cause of the vast majority of all business' failures, according to the statistics of Dun and Bradstreet—to wit, insufficient capital. Murderers are caught when their faces and habits and families are known. Usually their lack of means forces them to betray themselves. But nobody knows how the men who will kill E. H. Merriwether look, simply because we have enough money to go anywhere. We will become tourists—like thousands of others. Some of us will stay in New York; others will go on round-the-world tours. See this?”

The man pulled from his pocket some packages of well-worn bills, with the bank-wrappers round them, though a finger hid the bank name. Also the man showed to Mr. Merriwether several books of travelers' checks of the fifty-dollar denomination—the specimen signature also being covered by the man's finger.

“Enough for all,” said the man. “Kindly oblige me by thinking of what you would do in my place; and, in all frankness, acknowledge that nothing would be easier than to get away. Ordinary crime is so largely accidental that the average criminal is at the mercy of even the unintelligent police. Professionals do the same thing over and over and acquire telltale mannerisms. Also, they lack culture, and find the class attraction too strong to resist—besides always being hard up and therefore defenseless. Whenever you find a crook who is thrifty, you will find him always out of jail—like any other business man of equal thrift. We have gone about this case systematically. We wanted your million—but, more, we wanted the sport of taking it from a man who had no moral right to the particular million we desired. If you had been a really conscienceless financier we'd have made it five millions; in fact, it is because we are not sure that even this million is tainted that we ask you to pay it to us for giving you a fine daughter-in-law. Shall we go up-stairs?”

The master of the house led the way up-stairs and Mr. E. H. Merriwether, escorted by the stalwart footmen with the intelligent faces, followed, his own intelligent face impassive. That he was thinking meant only that he was doing what he always did.

The man sat down in his chair, with his back to the stained-glass window. He asked, pleasantly:

“What do you say now, Mr. Merriwether?”

“I say,” the little czar answered, with a frown of impatience, or anger, or both, “that when you are tired of playing the damned fool I'd like to return to my business.”

The man rose to his feet quickly, his face pale with anger. He took a step toward the financier, his fists clenched—and then suddenly controlled himself.

“You jackass!” he said. “You idiot! Have you no brains whatever? Must I lash common sense into you? Take 'em off!” It was a command to the footmen.

“Will you disrobe, sir?” very politely asked the oldest of them.

Mr. Merriwether, six inches shorter than the speaker, and a hundred pounds lighter, drew back his fist, but the four men seized him and began to take his clothes off. Mr. Merriwether, recognizing the uselessness of resistance and the folly of having garments torn so far from home, helped by unbuttoning here and there. Presently he stood in puris naturctlibus.

His face was pale and his jaw set tight.

“Tie him!” commanded the master.

They tied him to the library table, face down.

“Music!” cried the man; whereupon the cometist began to play the Meditation from “ThaÏs” softly, but obviously ready to play fortissimo at a signal from the chief.

“I am going to lick you with a whip; and, for every lash I give you, you will have to pay me one hundred thousand dollars in addition to the original million. Theatrical, is it?” And his voice was hoarse with anger. “Yes? Well, look at this melodramatic whip. Your tragedy will be my comedy, you————jackass!”

He showed to Mr. E. H. Merriwether a quirt—a veritable miniature blacksnake of plaited leather.

“You can stand twenty; that will make three million in all. I'll draw blood after the fifth. I'll stop when you've got enough. Remember the price!”

He snapped the whip viciously and walked round the table until he stood behind Mr. Merriwether. He lifted his arm and then the great Merriwether, autocrat of fifteen thousand miles of railroad, iron-nerved, fearless, imaginative, and intelligent, yelled: “Wait!”

“The million?”

“Yes!”

“Help him!” said the man; and the intelligent-looking footmen respectfully served as valets.

“I don't believe you would kill me—but I never liked spankings.” Mr. Merriwether spoke jocularly—almost!

The man confronted Mr. Merriwether and said, very seriously:

“Mr. Merriwether, we should certainly have killed you if you had persisted in your stubbornness to the end. We knew we had to convince you.”

The man looked inquiringly at the financier to see whether any doubt remained; but Mr. Merriwether asked, quizzically:

“Honest, now, would you—”

“We would!” interrupted the man, looking straight into Mr. Merriwether's eyes. And what Mr. Merriwether saw there made him ask:

“How will you have the million?”

“In cash. I'm glad you will make the payment. But really, sir, I wish to impress on you that Tom is ripe to be taken for better—or for worse.”

Mr. E. H. Merriwether looked long and earnestly into the eyes of the mysterious man who was despoiling him of a million dollars. It began to seep into his understanding that if Tom could be married to a nice girl the resulting peace of mind would indeed be cheap at a million.

“Now, if you please,” pursued the man, pleasantly, “telephone to McWayne that you wish him to come here with certified checks on your different banks, aggregating one million dollars, made payable to Michael P. Mahaffy.”

Mr. Merriwether started. The name was that of the world-famous political Boss of New York City. Explanations as to the million might be embarrassing to any political boss; but for a million dollars in cash any political boss would be glad to explain—or even not to explain.

“From this house Mr. McWayne will go to the banks, accompanied by the studious gentleman who had the honor of holding your left leg. You will indorse each check by writing 'indorsement correct' and signing your name. McWayne will go with our Mr. Michael P. Mahaffy and get the money in fives, tens, and twenties, in handy wads—old bills preferred and so requested from the paying tellers, who will intelligently understand that Mr. Mahaffy is not signing his name in person, so he can swear in any court of justice that he never saw the checks. Asking for old bills is to make them impossible to trace. This will also allay the banks' suspicions. The worst that can happen will be that a few tellers will wonder what Mr. Merriwether has to do with city politics that he needs Mahaffy's aid.”

“I see!” said Mr. Merriwether, thoughtfully. Then, after a pause: “Where is the telephone?”

“There!”

In plain sight and hearing of the master of the house the master of the Pacific & Southwestern called up his own office. He spoke to McWayne: “Make out checks on all banks according to my balances in them, so that the checks will aggregate one million dollars, payable to Michael P. Mahaffy.... What? Yes?... Have the checks certified.... Of course, if there isn't enough!... We shall want bills that have been used—fives, tens, and twenties.... Yes, all cash. Come up to 777 Fifth Avenue. You will go to the banks with a man—”

“With Mr. Mahaffy,” prompted the man.

“With Mr. Mahaffy,” repeated Mr. Merriwether. “And tell Tom to have luncheon and wait for me,” again prompted the man.

“And tell Tom I can't go to luncheon with him, but to wait for me.”

Mr. Merriwether hung up the receiver and turned to the man, saying:

“The idea of using Mahaffy's name—”

“Rather good, isn't it?” smiled the man. “Of course you wondered how we were going to cash the checks, didn't you? Well, that's the way. The bank officials will be surprised to see the checks and they will watch McWayne and my man to the last. They will thus be able to hear my man say loudly to the chauffeur, 'Tammany Hall, Charlie!' Attention to details, my dear sir!”

“I still am not quite convinced that—”

“My dear Mr. Merriwether, there are so many ways of safely getting money from you Wall Street magnates that the only thing that really protects you is the sad fact that the professional crooks are even more stupid than you. Men like you are compelled to bet your entire fortune, your very life, on averages. The average man is both stupid and honest; so you and your like are fairly safe for fairly long periods of time. Of course if we had been obliged to kill you we should have done so and buried you, and we should have been wise enough to utilize your death in as many ways as possible in the stock-market—and out of it. For instance, I should have instantly telephoned to all the men in your class and told them we had eliminated you—as an example—and to remember that in case we ever had occasion to ask anything from them. We should also give them a countersign, so that they would be able to recognize us when the proper time came. I can kidnap or permanently suppress any millionaire in New York, with neatness, despatch, and safety.”

“But killing a well-known man—” began Mr. Merriwether.

“If Big Tim Sullivan could be killed and lie in the Morgue for days unrecognized, what chance do relatively unknown people like you great millionaires stand to be found, once dead? A dead capitalist, remember, is no more impressive than a dead streetcar conductor. If I got you into this house on the strength of Tom, as I got Tom to come in on the strength of you, what millionaire would refuse, for example, to go, in answer to a telephone message that his child had been run over and was now, let us say, at 128 East Seventy-ninth Street? Or that his wife, acting more or less as if she were intoxicated, was scattering money at the corner of Seventh Avenue and Twenty-ninth Street? And suppose the millionaire is bound and chloroformed, and taken to the top floor of a tenement hired by a humpback with red beard and one leg shorter than the other—same humpback not being really a humpback or red-bearded or a cripple, but a fake, to furnish false clues in advance—and this humpback has previously given fire-extinguishing hand-grenades to all the other tenants, as advertisements! Then we have a charge of dynamite inserted in the thoroughly prepared corpse of the millionaire—his face burned off in advance—and he is also soaked in inflammable material and set on fire. And the deed is done at 11 a.m.; so that all the children will be in school and all the adults awake and able to get out. Find you? Bits of flesh and sympathy for the poor humpback is all the police would find in that tenement. Oh! sir, you were wise to pay—very wise indeed!”

Mr. Merriwether looked at the man a long time. He could not deny that to really desperate men such deeds offered no particular difficulty. The average crook is not dangerous to a millionaire; but a man like this is more than dangerous. He thought quickly and formed his conclusions accurately.

“How are you going to make Tom marry one of the girls whose names you mentioned?” he asked, in the tone of voice one uses toward physicians.

The man smiled slightly and said: “Oh, I am not going to do it. I don't care whether he marries or not. You must do that. But I'll tell you how, if you wish,—after McWayne gets here. Just think over the affair. It will put you in a more intelligently receptive frame of mind.” And with a pleasant smile the man took a little book bound in green leather and began to read.

Mr. E. H. Merriwether, as was his wont when thinking, began at the beginning and reviewed the entire affair quickly but carefully. He did this again—it did not take him long—and then he began to co-ordinate his ideas and study the case. Within ten minutes he had forgotten his animosity. In fifteen he felt respect for this man. In twenty he was thinking how helpless any one man is against his ten billion trillion natural foes—microbes, seismic disturbances, floods, and the chemical reaction of hostile brains. This man, whose very name was unknown to him, had vanquished the victor—had looted the tent of the victorious general!

This was incredible when spoken in a conversational tone of voice. Perhaps this same remarkable man might tell how to make Tom choose a desirable wife. It was worth while making the experiment. It was in the nature of a gamble in which E. H. Merriwether stood to win a happiness worth all the money in the world and stood to lose nothing!

A knock at the door roused him from his reverie. One of the footmen arrived from the threshold.

“Mr. McWayne!”

Mr. Merriwether's private secretary entered. E. H. Merriwether held out his right hand.

Mr. McWayne took four slips of paper and gave them to his chief, who quickly looked at them and passed them over to the master of the house. The man looked at them, indorsed them, and handed a pen to Mr. Merriwether. The czar of the Pacific & Southwestern wrote on each of the checks:

Indorsement correct.

E. H. Merriwether.

He returned the checks to the man, who thereupon pushed a button a number of times.

One of the footmen with the non-menial faces appeared dressed for the street. He looked Irish. He wore a big solitaire scarf-pin. His hat inclined to one side noticeably. He carried a square valise in each hand. They looked as if they had seen service. On each was printed, “Treasurer Tammany Hall.”

“Go with Mr. McWayne to the banks and cash the checks. Mr. McWayne will identify you,” said the master of the house.

“Yis, sor!” said the footman.

The brogue was unnecessary, but E. H. Merri-wether smiled slightly. McWayne and the footman in mufti left together.

“Think some more!” said the man to E. H. Merri-wether, and resumed his reading of the little green-leather book.

Mr. Merriwether leaned back and thought some more. To him the million-dollar loss was already ancient history. The only virtue that the Wall Street life gives to a professional is the ability to take a loss of money with more or less philosophy. That philosophy is also met on the race-track, and among experts in faro as well as among real Christians.

McWayne and the man were gone an hour and eighteen minutes. Mr. Merriwether had time to think of Tom and of himself and of the relation that had existed between himself and his son, and of the relations that would exist between them in the future—God willing.

“Mr. McWayne!” announced the servant.

The private secretary entered; also the Irishman with the two valises.

“Tell the others! At five o'clock!” said the master of the house, and the footman left the room—with the valises!

“Mr. McWayne, will you kindly wait in the other room?” The man rose and parted the portiÈres for the secretary to pass through.

“Certainly,” said McWayne, frowning politely. “Now, Mr. Merriwether,” said the man, “as I told you, Tom's mind and soul are prepared for love. The romantic vein in him has been worked to the limit. He can be laughed out of it very easily, for he is not entirely convinced; but it is too valuable a frame of mind for a really intelligent father to destroy. The young ladies, also, are ripe for the coming of the one man in all the world. They will respond readily—and, I may add, respond with relief if they see he is a man like your son, against whom nothing can be said. It will clinch the affair. My advice is for you to call on the young ladies I have mentioned and judge for yourself, and then you be your own stage-manager!”

“Have you any choice yourself?”

“You know Woodford?”

“Very well.”

“And his daughter Isabel?”

“No.”

“Well, she has the complementary qualities. She will, as it were, complete Tom. She is bright, healthy, very handsome, utterly unspoiled by the knowledge of her good looks—that is, she is highly intelligent. Her mind functionates quickly and is regulated and made to work safely by her keen sense of humor. You will love her for herself, as well as for Tom's sake and for Tom's children's sake. Arrange two things and you can do it. One is prepare her to meet Tom. Tell her you don't know why you want her to know him, but you do. Tell her you wanted this before you ever saw her. And tell her you know she must think you must be going crazy—but will she meet Tom in her father's home?—in some room with the lights turned out? She will ask you why you ask such things. And you will rub your hand across your eyes and say, dazed-like: T don't know! I don't know! Will—will you do it?' And when you take Tom to her, take advantage of the dark, and open this little bottle and touch Tom's lapel with this. It is essence of sweet peas. He will associate Isabel with the mysterious girl to whom he took a message in the dark, and by the same token she will know he is the man who destiny decrees shall be her husband. Then leave the rest to nature. They won't struggle. They couldn't if they wished; but they won't wish to fight. My parting words to you are: the man who was smart enough to get a million dollars out of you finds it even easier to make a young man who wants to love fall in love in the springtime with a handsome, healthy girl who wants to be loved. You and McWayne will now use one of my prisoner-carrying motors. This way, sir!”

He led the way into the next room, picked up McWayne, and escorted the financier and his private secretary to the curb. A neat little motor stood there.

Mr. Merriwether climbed in. McWayne followed. And then the man said:

“You will find that the doors cannot be opened from the inside. The chauffeur was told this queer feature was due to the fact that his master expects to use this car for his two very active and very mischievous children. He will drive you anywhere. You can arrest him if you wish; but it will be useless. We have spent a good many thousands of dollars in accessories that will be thrown away to-day.” And the man sighed.

“Who do you mean by we?” asked E. H. Merriwether, politely.

“The Plunder Recovery Syndicate, which, having completed its operations, will now dissolve. Good day, sir.”

In the issue of the World of June 9th two advertisements appeared. One, under “Marriages,” read:

Merriwether-Woodford.—On June 8th, at the Church of St. Lawrence, by the Rev. Stephen Vincent Rood, Isabel Woodford to Thomas Thome Merriwether.

The other, under “Personals,” read:

P. R. Syndicate,—It was cheap at a million!

E. H. M.

On June 10th the great railroad financier received a typewritten letter. It read:

In the course of our operations, having for an object the recovery of plunder taken from unidentified individuals by malefactors of great wealth, it has happened that we have grown fond of some of our contributors. We thus are able most sincerely to extend to you our hearty congratulations. It was indeed cheap at a million, and we shall remember your good fortune if ever we need advice or additional funds. What we took from you and from some of your fellow New-Yorkers we propose to return to the public at large. Mr. Amos F. Kidder will tell you his suspicions, if you ask him. In return you might tell him that we propose to capitalize time. We shall make a present of fifty years to the world by transmuting the recovered plunder into unspent time. Don't forget that we who were the Plunder Recoverers are now,

The Time Givers.

THE END