“If you do it,” he shouted, “I’ll close the theatre to-morrow and sack every one in it.  I’ll buy any theatre in New York where you try to present your namby-pamby play.  I’ll buy every manager she goes to for an engagement, every newspaper that says a word of praise of any work of yours.  I tell you I’ll stand behind the scenes and pull the strings which shall bring you and her to the knowledge of what failure and want mean.  I’ll give up the great things in life.  I’ll devote every dollar I have, every thought of my brain, every atom of my power, to bringing you two face to face with misery.  That’s if I keep my hands off you.  I mayn’t do that.”

Philip shrugged his shoulders.

“If I put you in a play,” he said, “which is where you really belong, people would find you humorous.  Your threats don’t affect me at all, Mr. Power.  Elizabeth can choose.”

Power leaned over to the switch and turned on an electric light above Philip’s head.

“Blast you, let me look at you!” he thundered.  “You’re a white-faced, sickly creature to call yourself a man!  Can’t you see this thing as I see it?  You’re the sort that’s had women, and plenty of them.  Another will do for you, and, my God! she is the only one I’ve looked at—­I, Sylvanus Power, mind—­I, who have ruled fate and ruled men all my life—­I want her!  Don’t be a fool!  Get out of my path.  I’ve crushed a hundred such men as you in my day.”

Philip took up his hat.

“We are wasting time,” he observed.  “You are a cruder person than I thought you, Mr. Power.  I am sorry for you, if that’s anything.”

“Sorry for me?  You?”

“Very,” Philip continued.  “You see, you’ve imbibed a false view of life.  You’ve placed yourself amongst the gods and your feet really are made of very sticky clay....  Shall I find my own way out?”

“You can find your way to hell!” Power roared.  “Use your toy pistol, if you want to.  You’re going where you’ll never need it again!”

He took a giant stride, a stride which was more like the spring of a maddened bull, towards Philip.  The veneer of a spurious civilisation seemed to have fallen from him.  He was the great and splendid animal, transformed with an overmastering passion.  There was murder in his eyes.  His great right arm, with its long, hairy fingers and its single massive ring, was like the limb of some prehistoric creature.  Philip’s brain and his feet, however, were alike nimble.  He sprang a little on one side, and though that first blow caught him just on the edge of the shoulder and sent him spinning round and round, he saved himself by clutching at the desk.  Fortunately, it was his left arm that hung helpless by his side.  His fingers groped feverishly in the cavernous folds of his overcoat pocket.  Power, who had dashed against the wall, smashing the glass of one of the pictures, had already recovered his balance and turned around.  The little revolver, with whose use Philip