Jefferson turned abruptly and went up the wide steps of an imposing white marble edifice, which took up the space of half a city block.  A fine example of French Renaissance architecture, with spire roofs, round turrets and mullioned windows dominating the neighbouring houses, this magnificent home of the plutocrat, with its furnishings and art treasures, had cost John Burkett Ryder nearly ten millions of dollars.  It was one of the show places of the town, and when the “rubber neck” wagons approached the Ryder mansion and the guides, through their megaphones, expatiated in awe-stricken tones on its external and hidden beauties, there was a general craning of vertebrae among the “seeing New York"-ers to catch a glimpse of the abode of the richest man in the world.

Only a few privileged ones were ever permitted to penetrate to the interior of this ten-million-dollar home.  Ryder was not fond of company, he avoided strangers and lived in continual apprehension of the subpoena server.  Not that he feared the law, only he usually found it inconvenient to answer questions in court under oath.  The explicit instructions to the servants, therefore, were to admit no one under any pretext whatever unless the visitor had been approved by the Hon. Fitzroy Bagley, Mr. Ryder’s aristocratic private secretary, and to facilitate this preliminary inspection there had been installed between the library upstairs and the front door one of those ingenious electric writing devices, such as are used in banks, on which a name is hastily scribbled, instantly transmitted elsewhere, immediately answered and the visitor promptly admitted or as quickly shown the door.

Indeed the house, from the street, presented many of the characteristics of a prison.  It had massive doors behind a row of highly polished steel gates, which would prove as useful in case of attempted invasion as they were now ornamental, and heavily barred windows, while on either side of the portico were great marble columns hung with chains and surmounted with bronze lions rampant.  It was unusual to keep the town house open so late in the summer, but Mr. Ryder was obliged for business reasons to be in New York at this time, and Mrs. Ryder, who was one of the few American wives who do not always get their own way, had good-naturedly acquiesced in the wishes of her lord.

Jefferson did not have to ring at the paternal portal.  The sentinel within was at his post; no one could approach that door without being seen and his arrival and appearance signalled upstairs.  But the great man’s son headed the list of the privileged ones, so without ado the smartly dressed flunkey opened wide the doors and Jefferson was under his father’s roof.

“Is my father in?” he demanded of the man.

“No, sir,” was the respectful answer.  “Mr. Ryder has gone out driving, but Mr. Bagley is upstairs.”  Then after a brief pause he added:  “Mrs. Ryder is in, too.”

In this household where the personality of the mistress was so completely overshadowed by the stronger personality of the master the latter’s secretary was a more important personage to the servants than the unobtrusive wife.