ere were five chairs ranged around
the table. Hanada frowned as he counted them.

"It seems," he murmured, "that the man who attends to the serving does
not know that Hanada dines with the Big Five to-night. Ah well! There is
time enough and room enough. We shall dine together; never fear."

He stepped back in the shadow of the heavy curtains and waited
expectantly.

"The Big Five," he murmured. "Some of America's richest, surely
Chicago's greatest millionaires. And Hanada dines with them. They will
listen to him, too. They will hang on his word. The Big Five will
listen. And if they say 'Yes,' if they do--" He drew in his breath
sharply. "If they do we will set the world afire with a great, new
thing. They have the money, which is power, and I have the knowledge,
which is greater power."

There was a sound outside the door. A servant entered and, bowing
deferentially, moved toward the table. He deftly rearranged the chairs
and the silver. When he left, there were six places set. Hanada smiled.

Had one been permitted to look in upon the diners in this simply
appointed room of one of America's great hotels that night, he might
have wondered at the manner in which five of Chicago's great men hung
upon the words of one little Japanese, who, now and then as he spoke, as
if to indicate the vastness and grandeur of his theme, spread his hands
forth in a broad gesture.

The meal ended, his speech concluded, all questions answered, he at last
rose, and with a low bow said:

"And now, gentlemen, I leave the proposition with you. Please do not
forget that it is a great and glorious venture; a new and glorious
empire! An honor to your country and mine."

He was gone.

For some time the five men sat in silence. Then one of them spoke:

"Is he mad?"

"Are we all mad?" questioned a second. His voice was husky.

"Well," said a third, "it sounds like a dream, a dream of great
possibilities. We must sleep over it."

Without another word they moved out of the room. The meeting, one of
the most momentous in the history of the century, perhaps, was ended.

* * * * *

When Johnny Thompson heard the shot and the guttural mutter, "Da
bolice!" he made a final effort to rally his senses and to put up a
fight.

He did succeed in struggling to his knees, but to fight was unnecessary.
Just as another shot sent echoes down the alley and a bullet sang over
their heads, his assailants took to their