imed, her eyes blazing. "I am your
daughter, but you can't talk to me thus. You must not!"

"Who--who are _you_ to say 'must not?'" he gibed, now wholly beside
himself. "You--you, who love a vagabond, a tramp, scum and off-scouring
of the gutter?"

A strange, half-choking sound was his only answer. Then, with no word,
she turned away from him, biting her lip lest she answer and betray
herself.

"Go!" he commanded, bloodless and quivering. "Go to your room. No more
of this! We shall see, soon, who's master of this house!"

She was already gone.

Old Flint stood there a moment, listening to her retreating footfalls on
the parquetry of the vast hall. Then, as these died he turned and
groped his way, as though blind, back to his chair, and fell in it, and
covered his eyes with both his shaking hands.

For a long time he sat there, anguished and crucified amid all that
unmeaning luxury and splendor.

At last he rose and with uncertain steps sought his own suite,
above-stairs.

Billionaire and world-master though he was, that night he knew his heart
lay dead within him. He realized that all the fruits of life were Dead
Sea fruits, withered to dust and ashes on his pale and quivering lips.

CHAPTER XX.

THE BILLIONAIRE'S PLOT.

He was aroused from this bitter revery by a rapping at the door.
Opening, he admitted Slawson, his valet. The servile one handed him a
letter with a special-delivery stamp on it.

"Excuse me for intruding, sir," said Slawson, meekly smiling, "but I
knew this was urgent."

"All right. Get out!" growled Flint. When the man was gone, he fortified
himself with a couple of morphine tablets, and ripped the long envelope.
It was from Slade, he knew, of the Cosmos Agency.

With a rapid eye he glanced it over. Then uttering a sudden oath, he
studied it carefully, under the electric bulb beside his dressing-table.

"Gods and devils!" he ejaculated. "What next?"

The letter read:

142A Park Row, New York City, June 28, 1921.

Isaac L. Flint, Esq.,

Idle Hour, Englewood, N. J.

Dear Sir:

Reporting in the matter of the young man who rescued your
daughter, in the recent accident, let me say I have discovered his
identity and some important facts concerning him. I take the
liberty of thinking that your intention of rewarding him, when
found, will be somewhat modified by this information.

This man's name is Gabriel Armstrong, age