caught them
lurking in his brain and thrown them out. To-night they had come with a
soft, invincible persistence, so that he had felt even his will
powerless to strangle them. He was forced to face the truth, that he,
Phineas Duge, the man of many millions, sat there while the minutes fled
past, looking with empty eyes into empty space, thinking of the child
whom he would have given at that moment more than he would have cared to
confess, to have found sitting within a few feet of him, peeling his
walnuts, or pouring out her impressions of this wonderful new life into
which she had come.

Some trifle it was which broke the thread of his reflections. When he
realized what he had been doing, he was conscious of a feeling almost of
shame. In a moment he was himself again. He calmly drank up his wine,
and as he set the glass down held out a cigar from the box to the man
who waited with the cigar cutter in hand. A little silver spirit lamp
burning with a blue flame stood all ready at his elbow. The butler gave
the signal, and his coffee, strong and fragrant, in a little gold cup,
was placed before him.

"You will tell Smedley to be in the study at nine o'clock," he ordered.

"Very good, sir!" the man replied. "You will not be going out to-night,
sir? There are no orders for the garage?"

"Not to-night," Phineas Duge answered.

There was an unexpected sound of voices outside in the hall. Phineas
Duge looked toward the door with a frown upon his face.

"What is that?" he asked sharply.

The butler was perplexed.

"I will go and see, sir," he said. "It sounds as if James were having
trouble with some one."

The door was suddenly opened. Weiss and Higgins entered quickly,
followed by the protesting and frightened footman. Phineas Duge rose
from his seat, and, resting one hand upon the table, peered forward at
the two men. His face, even under the rose-shaded electric lamp, was
cold and set. The gleam of white teeth was visible between his lips. He
looked like a man, metaphorically, about to spring upon his foes. One
hand had stolen round to the pocket of his dinner coat, and was holding
something hard, but to him very comforting. He offered no word of
greeting. He uttered no exclamation of surprise. He simply waited.

"These gentlemen pushed past me in the hall, sir," the footman
explained, deprecatingly. "My back was turned only for a moment, and
Wilkins was down having his supper."

"You can go," Phineas Duge sa