that he could ever miss.  After all, what a child!  As a matter of justice, and he told himself that it was justice only which had power to sway his judgment, what right had he to blame her for what was really nothing but a freak of ill-fortune!  Had he punished himself in sending her away?  Somehow, during these last few nights, the room had seemed curiously cold and empty.  He had missed her little timidly offered ministrations, the touch of her fingers upon his shoulder, the whole nameless delicacy which her presence had brought into the cold, magnificent surroundings, which seemed to him now as though they could never be quite the same again.

These thoughts had come to him before, but it was only to-night he had suffered them to linger in his mind.  Once or twice he had 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.