s the controlling
intellect of the great Nickel Trust; in fact, he was the Nickel Trust
himself, and the other men in it were mere dummies compared with him.
He had sailed the uncertain waters of finance for twenty years or
more, and had been nearly shipwrecked more than once, but at the time
of this story he was on the top of the wave; and as his past was even
more entirely a matter of conjecture than his future, it would be
useless to inquire into the former or to speculate about the latter.
Moreover, in these break-neck days no time counts but the present, so
far as reputation goes; good fame itself now resembles righteousness
chiefly because it clothes men as with a garment; and as we have the
highest authority for assuming that charity covers a multitude of
sins, we can hardly be surprised that it should be so generally
used for that purpose. Rufus Van Torp's charities were notorious,
aggressive, and profitable. The same sums of money could not have
bought as much mingled advertisement and immunity in any other way.

'Of course,' observed Alphonsine, seeing that Margaret would soon be
able to speak again, 'money is no object to Madame either!'

This subtle flattery was evidently meant to forestall reproof. But
Margaret was now splashing vigorously, and as both taps were running
the noise was as loud as that of a small waterfall; possibly she had
not even heard the maid's last speech.

Some one knocked at the door, and knocked a second time almost
directly. The Primadonna pushed Alphonsine with her elbow, speaking
being still impossible, and the woman understood that she was to
answer the summons.

She asked who was knocking, and some one answered.

'It is Mr. Griggs,' said Alphonsine.

'Ask him to wait,' Margaret succeeded in saying.

Alphonsine transmitted the message through the closed door, and
listened for the answer.

'He says that there is a lady dying in the manager's room, who wants
Madame,' said the maid, repeating what she heard.

Margaret stood upright, turned quickly, and crossed the room to the
door, mopping her face with a towel.

'Who is it?' she asked in an anxious tone.

'I'm Griggs,' said a deep voice. 'Come at once, if you can, for the
poor girl cannot last long.'

'One minute! Don't go away--I'm coming out.'

Alphonsine never lost her head. A theatrical dresser who does is of no
use. She had already brought the wide fur coat Margaret always wore
after singing. In ten seconds the