has gradually produced the distinct and true American type, as easily recognizable among the family of nations as any other of the earth’s children.  Tall and distinguished-looking, Ryder would have attracted attention anywhere.  Men who have accomplished much in life usually bear plainly upon their persons the indefinable stamp of achievement, whether of good or evil, which renders them conspicuous among their fellows.  We turn after a man in the street and ask, Who is he?  And nine times out of ten the object of our curiosity is a man who has made his mark—­a successful soldier, a famous sailor, a celebrated author, a distinguished lawyer, or even a notorious crook.

There was certainly nothing in John Ryder’s outward appearance to justify Lombroso’s sensational description of him:  “A social and physiological freak, a degenerate and a prodigy of turpitude who, in the pursuit of money, crushes with the insensibility of a steel machine everyone who stands in his way.”  On the contrary, Ryder, outwardly at least, was a prepossessing-looking man.  His head was well-shaped, and he had an intellectual brow, while power was expressed in every gesture of his hands and body.  Every inch of him suggested strength and resourcefulness.  His face, when in good humour, frequently expanded in a pleasant smile, and he had even been known to laugh boisterously, usually at his own stories, which he rightly considered very droll, and of which he possessed a goodly stock.  But in repose his face grew stern and forbidding, and when his prognathous jaw, indicative of will-power and bull-dog tenacity, snapped to with a click-like sound, those who heard it knew that squalls were coming.

But it was John Ryder’s eyes that were regarded as the most reliable barometer of his mental condition.  Wonderful eyes they were, strangely eloquent and expressive, and their most singular feature was that they possessed the uncanny power of changing colour like a cat’s.  When their owner was at peace with the world, and had temporarily shaken off the cares of business, his eyes were of the most restful, beautiful blue, like the sky after sunrise on a Spring morning, and looking into their serene depths it seemed absurd to think that this man could ever harm a fly.  His face, while under the spell of this kindly mood, was so benevolent and gentle, so frank and honest that you felt there was nothing in the world—­purse, honour, wife, child—­that, if needs be, you would not entrust to his keeping.

When this period of truce was ended, when the plutocrat was once more absorbed in controlling the political as well as the commercial machinery of the nation, then his eyes took on a snakish, greenish hue, and one could plainly read in them the cunning, the avariciousness, the meanness, the insatiable thirst for gain that had made this man the most unscrupulous money-getter of his time.  But his eyes had still another colour, and when this last transformation took place those