“Hullo!” he said softly.  “Oh, yes.  Oh, how are you?  So glad you’ve got back.  What sort of passage did—­oh, bad, eh?  Well, well; I’m sorry.  Oh, you’re a good sailor.  That’s fine.  Right away?  You’ll be over right away?  Wouldn’t you like to rest awhile?  All right, I see.  Yes, surely I’ll be glad.  I just thought—­oh, not at all.  You see, if you were a man I wouldn’t be concerned at all.  Yes, come right along whenever you choose.  Eh?  Successful?  You have been?  Why, that’s just fine.  Well, I’m dying to hear your news.  Splendid.  I shall be here.  G’bye.”

Peterman set the ’phone down.  His smiling eyes challenged those of the man who a moment before had derided him.

“Well?”

Hellbeam’s impatience was without scruple at any time.

“She’s got back all right, and she’s succeeded far better than you hoped.  Better than she hoped herself.  But—­no better than I expected.”

The other’s eyes snapped under the quiet satisfaction of the man’s reply.

“Ah, she has.  Does she say—­yes?”

Elas shook his dark head.

“No.  She’s coming right over to tell me the whole story.”

“Now?”

“In a while.”

Elas Peterman knew his position to the last fraction when dealing with Nathaniel Hellbeam.  He knew it was for him to obey, almost without question.  But somehow, for the moment, his Teutonic self-abnegation had become obscured.  He was yielding nothing in the matter of this woman to anyone.  Not even to Nathaniel Hellbeam whom he regarded almost as the master of his destiny.

Perhaps the gross nature of the financier possessed a certain sympathy.  Perhaps even there was a lurking sense of honour in him, where a woman, whom he regarded as another man’s property, was concerned.  Again it may simply have been that he understood the other’s reticence, and it suited him for the moment to restrain his grosser inclinations.  He laughed.  And it was not an hilarious effort.

“Oh, yes,” he said.  “You will see her first.  That is as it should be.  Later, we both will talk with her.  Well—­good luck my friend.”

Hellbeam thrust his hat on his great head and strutted his way across to the door.

“These people must be bought.  Or—­” he said, pausing before passing out—­

“Smashed!”

Hellbeam nodded.

“It suits me better to—­buy.”

“Yes.  You want to come into touch with—­the owner.”

“Yes.”

The gross figure disappeared through the doorway.

Peterman did not return to his desk.  He crossed to the window and stood gazing out of it.  His hands were thrust deep into his pockets.  And his fingers moved nervously, rattling the contents of them.  He was a goodly specimen of manhood.  He was tall, and squarely erect, and carried himself with that military bearing which seems to belong to all the races of Teutonic origin.  It was only in the study of the man’s face that exception could be taken.  Just now there was none to observe and he was free from all restraint.