th here to-night in a river of generosity, and that you are
starving for a drop which I refuse to give. Take a look over my house.
It cost two millions to build it, and requires half a million a year to
keep it up. I have a country estate of a hundred thousand acres in the
mountains of North Carolina, with a French chateau that cost a million.
I only weigh a hundred and fifteen pounds, but I require these palaces
to properly house me for a year. Think this over while you stroll among
my laughing guests. My art gallery will interest you. I've a single
painting there which cost three hundred thousand dollars--the entire
collection two millions. The butterflies those dancers are crushing
beneath their feet in my ball room, I imported from Central America at
a cost of five thousand dollars. The favours in jewelry I shall give to
my rich guests who have no use for them will be worth twenty-five
thousand dollars. You'll see my wife among the dancers. Her dresses
cost a hundred thousand a year. For the string of pearls around her
neck I paid a half million. The slippers on her feet cost two
thousand--all you need for your daughter's education. Take a good look
at it, Woodman, and as the day dawns and my guests depart, some of them
drunk on wine that cost twenty-five dollars a bottle--remember that I
spent three hundred and fifty thousand on this banquet which lasted
eight hours and that I will see you and your daughter dead and in the
bottomless pit before I will give you one penny. Enjoy yourself, it's a
fine evening."

The crushed man stared at Bivens in a stupor of pain. The brazen
audacity of his assault was more than he could foresee. When the full
import of its cruelty found his soul, he spoke in faltering tones:

"Only he who is willing to die, Bivens, is the master of life. Well, I
go now to meet Death and celebrate defeat."

"And I the sweetest victory of my life--good evening!"

Before the doctor could answer, the financier turned with a laugh and
left the room.

For a long time the dazed man stood motionless. He passed his big hand
over his forehead in a vague instinctive physical effort to lift the
fog of horror and despair that was slowly strangling him.

"My God!" he gasped at last.

The orchestra began a new waltz while the hum of voices, and the
laughter of half-drunken revellers floated up the grand stairs and
struck upon his ears with a strange new accent. He seemed to have lived
a thousand years, and