But when Harrow returned it was as bearer of a message which marred the serenity of this waiting.

“Miss Burton sends word, sir, that she will receive you in her boudoir in a half-hour.  She does not find it convenient to come down to breakfast.”

For a moment, Hamilton Burton remained standing and his gray eyes flashed forebodingly, though the line of his lips was not deflected.  Then he led the way to the breakfast-room.

“Tell Miss Burton,” he ordered shortly, “that we are awaiting her in the breakfast-room.  Say to her that I trust she will make the delay short.”  Then as the butler turned, the master halted him again.  “No,” he amended, “I’ll send a note—­give me a sheet of paper.”

As the embarrassed servant laid a note-card by his plate, he hastily scribbled: 

“Dear Mary, While you are mistress of my house I shall expect you to appear at the breakfast-table.  The rest of the day is yours.  This is final.  Mr. Bristoll and I are waiting and my time is not to be valued lightly.  Please do not tax my patience longer.”

When Harrow had gone, Burton turned again to Bristoll, and with that systematic quality which made his brain so versatile he dismissed the annoyance for another matter.

“I want your opinion on the coffee,” he said lightly.  “It came from the Jungus valley in Bolivia.  Men who have drunk it there are not satisfied with any other.  In the local market it is costly and as an export it is unattainable.”

“Yet you have obtained it,” smiled the secretary.  “How?”

Burton laughed.  “I wanted it,” he announced briefly.  “So I got it.”

“Mr. Burton,” the younger man spoke hesitantly, “you look very fit and seem absolutely on edge, but I’m afraid you’re rather overdoing things.  I don’t mean any impertinence of suggestion, but the trout are jumping in the mountain brooks just now.  Can’t you drop things for a few days and climb into a flannel shirt—­and rest?  You could go somewhere where the leaves are rustling in the woods and things are as God made them, close to His immortal granite.  I don’t want to see you break yourself down.”

Hamilton Burton was looking at the percolator in which the Bolivian coffee was bubbling as restively as the fires of the volcano at whose base it grew from berry to lush plant and came again to berry.  He was balancing a spoon on his forefinger, and smiling with quiet amusement.

“Now that’s very thoughtful of our young Minister of Finance.”  He spoke softly as the fugitive smile played around the corners of his lips.  “Very thoughtful indeed, but the suggestion is, after all, unavailable.”  He paused, and the smile died.  “I don’t think I’ve ever become autobiographical with you, have I, Carl?”

The secretary shook his head.  “But, of course, you know I should feel honored at any time you did,” he declared with whole-hearted and boyish enthusiasm.