l I have
fattened them. When the day comes, be assured they won't call me off,
but until I am ready I don't strike." He took a turn or two across the
floor and halted at the center of the room. His eyes were burning now
with an intense fire of egotism.

"Their anger--their threats: it's all incense they burn to my power,
but, good God, Carl, how they hate me!"

* * * * *

As the ship which was bringing Jefferson Edwardes back to his native
shores drew near enough for the Navesink light to wink its welcome, the
banker found himself in a pensive mood. The last evening of the voyage
was being celebrated with a dance on deck, but Edwardes, who had
remained somewhat of a recluse during the passage over, was content to
play the part of the onlooker.

The expectant spirit of home-coming lent a cheery animation to the
rhythmic swaying of the dancing figures and brought a light to their
eyes. Jefferson Edwardes realized that his own mood was difficult to
analyze. His childhood had been spent in world-wandering and his youth
in the exile of a battle for life in the mountains. His later young
manhood had found its setting in such capitals as St. Petersburg and
Berlin. It had been a life full of activity, yet strangely solitary and
dominated by dreams and imagination. Now he realized that the most
tangible thing to which he looked forward at home was a meeting with
Mary Burton, and with the thought that tomorrow morning would bring the
sky-line of Manhattan into view, a decided misgiving possessed him. He
had heretofore treated the thing half-humorously--as a pleasant, but
vague, dream. It could no longer remain so. He realized that it had been
a definite enough dream to keep the door of his heart closed upon other
women. He must see her and if, after seeing her, his dream could no
longer exist he knew that it would be to him and his life a serious
matter. A chance acquaintance of the voyage had known her and spoken of
her. He was an Englishman of title and a thoroughly likable fellow.
Somehow Edwardes fancied that this man's own heart carried a scar and
that he had sought to be more than a casual friend to Mary Burton--and
had failed. So the American felt a delicacy in asking those questions
which might have enlightened him. Yet the talk that had passed between
them had heightened his already keen impatience to see the girl with
whom he had so strangely and intangibly fallen into an attitude whic