Hamilton Montagu Burton stood an even six feet, and from a generous breadth of shoulders, swung back in free erectness, he tapered to a trim slenderness of waist and thigh.  In the immaculate elegance of his dress he justified his reputation as the best-clothed man in New York, even while he retained the grace of a seeming carelessness.  His eyes, though he had slept a scant four hours, looked out clear-pupiled and tireless, but it was the shape and carriage of the head that proclaimed mastery.  The pattern of brow and jaw and clean-cut lip and indomitable eye gave that head an alert power which made it the head of one born to command.  The illuminating smile could give way to a sternness and a decision that became ruthless in its dominance, and the eyes could harden like diamonds as swiftly as they could melt.

Carl Bristoll laughed, and after the custom of badinage that had grown up between them he made a bow of mock ceremony as he replied.

“Quite fit, Sire, and your Majesty’s appearance proclaims you equally so.”

It was hardly the sort of greeting that the outsider might have expected, but neither financier nor secretary was an ordinary type and between them throve an excellent understanding.

As Bristoll read from his notes Hamilton Burton’s face lost its smile and became instantly attentive while his questions snapped out clear-clipped and comprehensive.

It seemed that the brain was separated into many zones, each carrying forward its separate functions without interference or confusion.  Through the channels of vision, hearing and quick independent thought, varied propositions were at one time being absorbed while the master instinct of cooerdination was weighing all and planning yet other affairs.

“And now,” announced the financier, when the stenographic notes had been read and others written in swift adjudication of their problems, “the rest can wait till we get down-town.  There’s Harrow calling us to breakfast—­and breakfast is an institution I particularly venerate.”  The master of the establishment turned to the butler and inquired, “Hasn’t Miss Burton come down?”

“Miss Burton, sir,” replied the man with a shade of uneasiness in his voice, “sent word by her maid that she would breakfast in her room.”

The naive smile faded from Hamilton Burton’s face and for an instant it took on something of that aggressive set which men in the Stock-Exchange had come to recognize as precursor of a frenzied day.

“Send word to my sister,” he directed quietly, “that I insistently request her to join us at breakfast.  I must see her before I leave the house.”  He strode with a resilient step about the room, pausing idly before a favorite landscape here and prized bronze there.  Patience was one quality which Hamilton Burton had not spent great effort in acquiring.  It was his custom to let others adapt themselves to his convenience, yet his eyes were unruffled as he smilingly turned to his secretary. “‘Serene I wait—­with folded hands,’” he murmured.