dependent on him, and even his friends, quaked with fear.  For they were his eyes of anger.  On these dreaded occasions his eyes grew black as darkest night and flashed fire as lightning rends the thundercloud.  Almost ungovernable fury was, indeed, the weakest spot in John Ryder’s armour, for in these moments of appalling wrath he was reckless of what he said or did, friendship, self-interest, prudence—­all were sacrificed.

Such was the Colossus on whom all eyes were turned as he entered.  Instantly the conversations, stopped as by magic.  The directors nudged each other and whispered.  Instinctively, Ryder singled out his crony, Senator Roberts, who advanced with effusive gesture: 

“Hello, Senator!”

“You’re punctual as usual, Mr. Ryder.  I never knew you to be late!”

The great man chuckled, and the little men standing around, listening breathlessly, chuckled in respectful sympathy, and they elbowed and pushed one another in their efforts to attract Ryder’s notice, like so many cowardly hyenas not daring to approach the lordly wolf.  Senator Roberts made a remark in a low tone to Ryder, whereupon the latter laughed.  The bystanders congratulated each other silently.  The great man was pleased to be in a good humour.  And as Ryder turned with the senator to enter the Directors Room the light from the big windows fell full on his face, and they noticed that his eyes were of the softest blue.

“No squalls to-day,” whispered one.

“Wait and see,” retorted a more experienced colleague.  “Those eyes are more fickle than the weather.”

Outside the sky was darkening, and drops of rain were already falling.  A flash of lightning presaged the coming storm.

Ryder passed on and into the Directors Room followed by Senator Roberts and the other directors, the procession being brought up by the dapper little secretary bearing the minutes.

The long room with its narrow centre table covered with green baize was filled with directors scattered in little groups and all talking at once with excited gesture.  At the sight of Ryder the chattering stopped as if by common consent, and the only sound audible was of the shuffling of feet and the moving of chairs as the directors took their places around the long table.

With a nod here and there Ryder took his place in the chairman’s seat and rapped for order.  Then at a sign from the chair the dapper little secretary began in a monotonous voice to read the minutes of the previous meeting.  No one listened, a few directors yawned.  Others had their eyes riveted on Ryder’s face, trying to read there if he had devised some plan to offset the crushing blow of this adverse decision, which meant a serious loss to them all.  He, the master mind, had served them in many a like crisis in the past.  Could he do so again?  But John Ryder gave no sign.  His eyes, still of the same restful blue, were fixed on the ceiling watching a