rm, her loveliness of face. He had
apprehended, too, in some measure at least, the fineness of her mental
fiber and the capacities of her heart. Deep within him, denied any
outlet, he knew there lurked a curious, subtle sympathy for the girl in
her scheme of revenge against himself. Her persistent striving toward
the object of her ambition was something he could understand, since the
like thing in different guise had been back of his own business success.
He would not let the idea rise to the surface of consciousness, for
he still refused to believe that Mary Turner had suffered at his hand
unjustly. He would think of her as nothing else than a vile creature,
who had caught his son in the toils of her beauty and charm, for the
purpose of eventually making money out of the intrigue.

Gilder, in his library this night, was pacing impatiently to and fro,
eagerly listening for the sound of his son's return to the house. He had
been the guest of honor that night at an important meeting of the Civic
Committee, and he had spoken with his usual clarity and earnestness in
spite of the trouble that beset him. Now, however, the regeneration of
the city was far from his thought, and his sole concern was with the
regeneration of a life, that of his son, which bade fair to be ruined by
the wiles of a wicked woman. He was anxious for the coming of Dick, to
whom he would make one more appeal. If that should fail--well, he must
use the influences at his command to secure the forcible parting of the
adventuress from his son.

The room in which he paced to and fro was of a solid dignity, well
fitted to serve as an environment for its owner. It was very large, and
lofty. There was massiveness in the desk that stood opposite the hall
door, near a window. This particular window itself was huge, high,
jutting in octagonal, with leaded panes. In addition, there was a great
fireplace set with tiles, around which was woodwork elaborately carved,
the fruit of patient questing abroad. On the walls were hung some pieces
of tapestry, where there were not bookcases. Over the octagonal window,
too, such draperies fell in stately lines. Now, as the magnate paced
back and forth, there was only a gentle light in the room, from a
reading-lamp on his desk. The huge chandelier was unlighted.... It was
even as Gilder, in an increasing irritation over the delay, had thrown
himself down on a couch which stood just a little way within an alcove,
that he heard