live, and with
no greater expectation of life or of happiness than the average sinful,
short-lived human being. I've often thought of that as I've watched our
great "captains of industry." Voltaire's dilemma is theirs. And they don't
hesitate; they press the button. I leave the morality of the performance to
moralists; to me, its chief feature is its cowardice, its sneaking, slimy
cowardice.

"You've done a grand two hours' work," said Joe.

"Grander than you think," replied I. "I've set the tiger on to fight the
bull."

"Galloway and Roebuck?"

"Just that," said I. And I laughed, started up, sat down again. "No, I'll
put off the pleasure," said I. "I'll let Roebuck find out, when the claws
catch in that tough old hide of his."

XXVII. A CONSPIRACY AGAINST ANITA

On about the hottest afternoon of that summer I had the yacht take me down
the Sound to a point on the Connecticut shore within sight of Dawn Hill,
but seven miles farther from New York. I landed at the private pier of
Howard Forrester, the only brother of Anita's mother. As I stepped upon the
pier I saw a fine-looking old man in the pavilion overhanging the water. He
was dressed all in white except a sky-blue tie that harmonized with the
color of his eyes. He was neither fat nor lean, and his smooth skirt was
protesting ruddily against the age proclaimed by his wool-white hair. He
rose as I came toward him, and, while I was still several yards away,
showed unmistakably that he knew who I was and that he was anything but
glad to see me.

"Mr. Forrester?" I asked

He grew purple to the line of his thick white hair. "It is, Mr. Blacklock,"
said he. "I have the honor to wish you good day, sir." And with that he
turned his back on me and gazed out toward Long Island.

"I have come to ask a favor of you, sir," said I, as polite to that hostile
back as if I had been addressing a cordial face. And I waited.

He wheeled round, looked at me from head to foot. I withstood the
inspection calmly; when it was ended I noted that in spite of himself he
was somewhat relaxed from the opinion of me he had formed upon what he had
heard and read. But he said: "I do not know you, sir, and I do not wish to
know you."

"You have made me painfully aware of that," replied I. "But I have learned
not to take snap judgments too seriously. I never go to a man unless I have
something to say to him, and I never leave until I have said it."

"I perceive, sir," retorted