nace or rancor, had struck terror to the hearts of the
greatest malefactors of his generation--which, without flattery or
ingratiation, had won for him the friendship of the greatest men in
the country. He knew every move in the gigantic game which was being
played solely for his attention, long before a pawn was lifted from
its place, a single counter changed; he had known it, from the moment
that the seemingly unimportant paragraph had met his eyes; and he
also knew the men who sat in the game, whose hands passed over the
great chessboard of current events, whose brains directed the moves.
And the stakes? Not the welfare of the workingmen in that distant
city, not the lifting of the grinding heel of temporal power from
the supine bodies of the humble--but the peace of mind, the
honorable, untarnished name, the earthly riches of the slender
girl who sat in that great darkened house on Belleair Avenue.

Hence Blaine sat back quietly, and waited for the decisive move which
he knew to be forthcoming--waited, and not in vain. The spectacular
play to the gallery of one was dramatically accomplished; it was
heralded by extras bawled through the midnight streets, and full-page
display headlines in the papers the next morning.

Promptly on the stroke of nine, Henry Blaine arrived at his office,
and as he expected, found awaiting him an urgent telegram from the
chief of police of the city where the strike had assumed such colossal
importance, earnestly asking him for his immediate presence and
assistance. He sent a tentative refusal--and waited. Still more
insistent messages followed in rapid succession, from the mayor of
that city, the governor of that state, even its representative in the
Senate at Washington, to all of which he replied in the same emphatic,
negative strain. Then, late in the afternoon, there eventuated that
which he had anticipated. Mohammed came to the mountain.

Blaine read the card which his confidential secretary presented, and
laid it down upon the desk before him.

"Show him in," he directed, shortly. He did not rise from his chair,
nor indeed change his position an iota, but merely glanced up from
beneath slightly raised eyebrows, when the door opened again and a
bulky, pompous figure stood almost obsequiously before him.

"Come in, Mr. Carlis," he invited coolly. "Take this chair. What can I
do for you?"

It was significant that neither man made any move toward shaking
hands, although it was o