An hour later the excitement had spread to the editorial rooms of every morning newspaper in the country. It was too late at night to do more than print without comment the stupendous news contained in the president’s proclamation. None of the devices for giving emphasis to intelligence of the highest moment were omitted. Black type and wide-spaced lines made the first pages of the morning papers bristle with importance as on the day after a presidential election. Soon the news was in everybody’s mouth--not in America only, but throughout civilization. It was a story which, although told in official language, appealed to every one who knows the passion of envy. Few outside the small circles of finance tried to estimate the effect of the strange news upon their own affairs, few imagined it would have any such influence. It was simply to the masses the most marvelous tale of the age, and another proof that fact is stranger than fiction. But American curiosity promptly demanded something more. Who was this strange billionaire who quietly sacrificed his wealth upon the recommendation of a board of advisers? His fellow-countrymen clamored for his personality, and the whole machinery of journalism was brought into action to comply with the demand. The president’s proclamation gave no clue to the present whereabouts of “Mr. Robert Brent of New York,” nor to the location of the private vault in which the treasure had been stored. No other name had been mentioned in the proclamation, but it did not take long for the New York editors to identify Strong & Co. as the agents of the new king of finance, and to see in the news the explanation of many of the mysteries of the previous year. The Wall Street representatives of all the papers were very early at the Nassau Street banking house on the morning of the publication of the president’s proclamation. Most of them were personal friends of John Wharton by this time, as are all the magnates of “The Street” with this trusty corps of newspaper men. Wharton came in about nine o’clock, accompanied by a man about his own age whom some of the writers remembered having seen at the office before. The reporters smilingly barred their passage to the inner office. Wharton threw up his hands in mock despair. The other man smiled slightly. “You can’t go in unless you take us with you and tell us the whole story,” remarked a genial young man, who smilingly headed the intimidating squad. “What--” Wharton began, then changed his mind. “No, I’ll not bluff you, gentlemen. It’s of no use. But I can’t talk now, really. Come back at three o’clock, and I’ll give you all I can.” “That won’t do. Where’s Robert Brent?” insisted the head of the journalistic corps. “He’ll be here at three o’ clock,” replied Wharton conciliatingly, and edging toward the door by a flank movement. “And will you promise us a talk with him?” “Yes.”