“Rather gratuitous, son, wasn’t it?” he suggested.

“What do you mean?” Larry Kirk put his question blankly.

“Nothing, except that you know Len or ought to.  He’s the present-day Othello, sulking because he can’t get a dance with his wife.  It’s barely conceivable that he’s not aching to have it rubbed in.”

“Can’t get a dance?” repeated the empty-eyed youth perplexedly.  “Why?”

Thayre snorted.  “What chance has he—­or any one else when Ham Burton’s gifted pomeranian sequesters her in some shaded nook and whispers musical nonsense into her coral ear?”

“You mean Paul Burton?  Gifted pomeranian fits him nicely ... but why should any man be jealous of—­him?”

“A man may be jealous of any creature that all women pet.  Paul Burton can play to them until their golden souls come soaring out to be playmates with his golden soul.  You and I, having no wives, may be able to laugh at such things—­but Len Haswell has a devilish pretty one—­and a devilish foolish one.”

To young Mr. Kirk the situation seemed simple.

“Why doesn’t Len just take this pleasing minstrel by the scruff of his neck and say to him, ’Nice little doggy, run away’?”

“For two reasons.  First, behind the pleasing minstrel stands the Emperor—­damn his magnificently audacious soul!  Secondly, when you chase a man who has access to the treasure of the Incas ... you take a fairish chance of chasing the lady along with him.”

“I’m sorry I made Len sore.”  The blond man spoke contritely.  Then his voice snapped into animosity.  “He’s worth a dozen Paul Burtons, the vapid little piano-player.”

“Right-o!” Thayre stood with his feet well apart and his baldish head thrown back.  “Even that profound gift for reading human nature, which it pleased a Divine Providence to bestow upon me, could hardly have hit more jolly well on the peg.”  He paused, then added, “But be that as it may—­in the habit which has become so prevalent among us money-changers in the temple, of damning the soul of Hamilton Burton—­when he is absent—­I think we overlook a few patent truths.  We hate the man and all his breed simply because he outclasses us at our own game.”

“You mean he outplunders us,” contradicted Kirk.

“It comes to much the same thing, young son, though High Finance is a prettier name for the pastime.  He gathers in millions to our thousands not only because he is a naughty, wicked man, but because of his greater caliber and range.  Brother Paul shines by some of this reflected glory—­so it has become the fashion to damn Brother Paul, too.”

It began to dawn on the fair-haired young man that he was being chaffed.  His reply came sulkily.

“To my mind Paul Burton is nothing but a hanger-on.”

“Quite true.  So am I. So are you.  So are all of us who produce nothing tangible.  Paul is a hanger-on by better right than many others who depend directly or indirectly on the energies of this great producing pirate.”