overnment stepped in, and the affair became
one of the highest questions of state. Certain contingent funds of
the nation were devoted to the unearthing of the M. of M., and every
government agent was on the alert. But all in vain. The Minions of Midas
carried on their damnable work unhampered. They had their way and struck
unerringly.

But while he fought to the last, Mr. Hale could not wash his hands of
the blood with which they were dyed. Though not technically a murderer,
though no jury of his peers would ever have convicted him, none the less
the death of every individual was due to him. As I said before, a word
from him and the slaughter would have ceased. But he refused to give
that word. He insisted that the integrity of society was assailed; that
he was not sufficiently a coward to desert his post; and that it was
manifestly just that a few should be martyred for the ultimate welfare
of the many. Nevertheless this blood was upon his head, and he sank into
deeper and deeper gloom. I was likewise whelmed with the guilt of an
accomplice. Babies were ruthlessly killed, children, aged men; and
not only were these murders local, but they were distributed over
the country. In the middle of February, one evening, as we sat in the
library, there came a sharp knock at the door. On responding to it I
found, lying on the carpet of the corridor, the following missive:

OFFICE OF THE M. OF M., February 15, 1900.

MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron:

Dear Sir,--Does not your soul cry out upon the red harvest it is
reaping? Perhaps we have been too abstract in conducting our business.
Let us now be concrete. Miss Adelaide Laidlaw is a talented young woman,
as good, we understand, as she is beautiful. She is the daughter of your
old friend, Judge Laidlaw, and we happen to know that you carried her in
your arms when she was an infant. She is your daughter's closest friend,
and at present is visiting her. When your eyes have read thus far her
visit will have terminated.

Very cordially,

THE MINIONS OF MIDAS.

My God! did we not instantly realize the terrible import! We rushed
through the dayrooms--she was not there--and on to her own apartments.
The door was locked, but we crashed it down by hurling ourselves against
it. There she lay, just as she had finished dressing for the opera,
smothered with pillows torn from the couch, the flush of life yet on her
flesh, the body still flexible and warm. Let me pass over the rest of
thi