Here, secretly and unlawfully, the heads of railroads met to agree on rates which by discriminating against one locality in favour of another crushed out competition, raised the cost to the consumer, and put millions in the pockets of the Trust.  Here were planned tricky financial operations, with deliberate intent to mislead and deceive the investing public, operations which would send stocks soaring one day, only a week later to put Wall Street on the verge of panic.  Half a dozen suicides might result from the coup, but twice as many millions of profits had gone into the coffers of the “System.”  Here, too, was perpetrated the most heinous crime that can be committed against a free people—­the conspiring of the Trusts abetted by the railroads, to arbitrarily raise the prices of the necessaries of life—­meat, coal, oil, ice, gas—­wholly without other justification than that of greed, which, with these men, was the unconquerable, all-absorbing passion.  In short, everything that unscrupulous leaders of organized capital could devise to squeeze the life blood out of the patient, defenceless toiler was done within these four walls.

It was a handsome room, noble in proportions and abundantly lighted by three large and deeply recessed, mullioned windows, one in the middle of the room and one at either end.  The lofty ceiling was a marvellously fine example of panelled oak of Gothic design, decorated with gold, and the shelves for books which lined the walls were likewise of oak, richly carved.  In the centre of the wall facing the windows was a massive and elaborately designed oak chimney-piece, reaching up to the ceiling, and having in the middle panel over the mantel a fine three-quarter length portrait of George Washington.  The room was furnished sumptuously yet quietly, and fully in keeping with the rich collection of classic and modern authors that filled the bookcases, and in corners here and there stood pedestals with marble busts of Shakespeare, Goethe and Voltaire.  It was the retreat of a scholar rather than of a man of affairs.

When Jefferson entered, his father was seated at his desk, a long black cigar between his lips, giving instructions to Mr. Bagley.  Mr. Ryder looked up quickly as the door opened and the secretary made a movement forward as if to eject the intruder, no matter who he might be.  They were not accustomed to having people enter the sanctum of the Colossus so unceremoniously.  But when he saw who it was, Mr. Ryder’s stern, set face relaxed and he greeted his son amiably.

“Why, Jeff, my boy, is that you?  Just a moment, until I get rid of Bagley, and I’ll be with you.”

Jefferson turned to the book shelves and ran over the titles while the financier continued his business with the secretary.

“Now, Bagley.  Come, quick.  What is it?”

He spoke in a rapid, explosive manner, like a man who has only a few moments to spare before he must rush to catch a train.  John Ryder had been catching trains all his life, and he had seldom missed one.