MR. HERBERT BALCOM,

  International Patents, Inc.

  DEAR SIR,—­A special meeting of the executive board of
  International Patents, Inc., will be called at Brent Rock
  this afternoon to determine the future policies of this company.

  [Signed] EVA BRENT.

Balcom had read the notice for the tenth time when a negro servant entered and announced that his son Paul wished to see him.

“Show him in—­then,” growled Balcom to the servant.

Paul entered.  He was evidently somewhat chagrined and crestfallen.  Nor did his father’s next words tend to cheer him up.

“I suppose you’ll acknowledge that you’ve made a miserable mess of it,” accused the older man.  “When will you stop mixing women with business?”

Paul was silent.  Indeed there was nothing that he could say.

“And now look at this note,” pursued Balcom, in growing rage.  “It brings things to a head.  What can we do?”

He thrust the note at Paul, who read it.  Balcom himself reread it, crumpled it in anger, tore it, and threw the pieces in violence on the floor.

This time it was to be Paul who was to formulate a plan.  It was of such a dark and criminal nature that even Herbert Balcom, hardened as he was himself, was for the moment appalled at his son’s temerity.  But as he listened to Paul’s words they fascinated him and he leaned forward the better to take in the scheme.

As Paul and his father planned, it seemed that here was power unlimited, wealth beyond all counting and without the possibility of discovery.  For, like most men of his caliber, the approbation of the community was dear to Balcom.

“Good, Paul!” approved Balcom.  “Go to it at once.”

Paul looked keenly at his father.

“Haven’t you anything to add?”

“No, I have nothing to advise.  The scheme is perfect, and as you conceived it you can also execute it.  The best of luck to you, my boy.”

A few moments later Paul went out, his dark face beaming at being reinstated in his father’s good graces.  He was full of his plan.

Down in one of the city’s worst sections and near the river-front there stood an old ramshackle building.  Why it had not been condemned by the building inspectors was a mystery.  But it stood in all its squalid ugliness.  The door and the windows were locked and shuttered.  One could see at a glance that the building had been long unused.

There was an alley strewn with tin cans and other refuse leading to the back of the house, and it was down a flight of broken brick steps that Old Meg, the fortune-teller, had her den where through the superstitions of those inhabiting the neighborhood she managed to eke out a miserable existence.  The interior of the den was unspeakably filthy.  The furniture consisted of a broken-down couch, a chest of drawers in a like condition, a card-table, a few kitchen chairs, and some boxes.  Most of the panes in the windows had been broken and the empty spaces had been covered with old newspapers.  Consequently, a candle thrust into an old wine-bottle supplied the only real light.