There was evidently somebody in the second room; Duane had also noticed a motor waiting outside as he descended from his cab; so he took a seat and sat twirling his walking-stick between his knees, gloomily inspecting a room which, in pleasanter days, had not been unfamiliar to him.

Instead of the servant returning, there came a click from the elevator, a quick step, and the master of the house himself walked swiftly into the room wearing hat and gloves.

“What do you want?” he inquired briefly.

“I want to ask you a question or two,” said Duane, shocked at the change in Dysart’s face.  Haggard, thin, snow-white at the temples with the light in his eyes almost extinct, the very precision and freshness of linen and clothing brutally accentuated the ravaged features.

“What questions?” demanded Dysart, still standing, and without any emotion whatever in either voice or manner.

“The first is this:  are you in communication with my father concerning mining stock known as Yo Espero?”

“I am.”

“Is my father involved in any business transactions in which you figure, or have figured?”

“There are some.  Yes.”

“Is the Cascade Development and Securities Co. one of them?”

“Yes, it is.”

Duane’s lips were dry with fear; he swallowed, controlled the rising anger that began to twitch at his throat, and went on in a low, quiet voice: 

“Is this man—­Moebus—­connected with any of these transactions in which you and—­and my father are interested?”

“Yes.”

“Is Klawber?”

“Max Moebus, Emanuel Klawber, James Skelton, and Amos Flack are interested.  Is that what you want to know?”

Duane looked at him, stunned.  Dysart stepped nearer, speaking almost in a whisper: 

“Well, what about it?  Once I warned you to keep your damned nose out of my personal affairs——­”

“I make some of them mine!” said Duane sharply; “when crooks get hold of an honest man, every citizen is a policeman!”

Dysart, face convulsed with fury, seized his arm in a vicelike grip: 

“Will you keep your cursed mouth shut!” he breathed.  “My father is in the next room.  Do you want to kill him?”

At the same moment there came a stir from the room beyond, the tap-tap of a cane and shuffling steps across the polished parquet.  Dysart’s grip relaxed, his hand fell away, and he made a ghastly grimace as a little old gentleman came half-trotting, half-shambling to the doorway.  He was small and dapper and pink-skinned under his wig; the pink was paint; his lips and eyes peered and simpered; from one bird-claw hand dangled a monocle.

Jack Dysart made a ghastly and supreme effort: 

“I was just saying to Duane, father, that all this financial agitation is bound to blow over by December—­Duane Mallett, father!”—­as the old man raised his eye-glass and peeped up at the young fellow—­“you know his father, Colonel Mallett.”