"Splendid!" responded Lorenz with enthusiasm. "You've said something, Mac! Why not widen out into a general cultural establishment? Teach the fine arts, writing, painting, dancing, a course on social accuracy and when to tuck napkins in the neck! Anybody can teach anything. With a prince or a countess in charge of each department you'll put the S.R.O. sign up in a month's time! Even Broadway will fall for it hard." Findlater struggled for air. "But, Macgowan--er--you don't really purpose that Consolidated should back such a project?" "Surely you'd not veto it?" returned Macgowan. His genial words, however, were accompanied by a sudden flashing glance which caused Findlater to change countenance. "Think of it, Henry C.! Every one who buys a share of stock can send the young hopeful to the Imperial Russian Academy at reduced rates; think how the nobility worshipers will eat it up! What say, Milligan?" The lawyer nodded thoughtful approval. "It looks like a good scheme. As a stock proposition, can you get away with it?" "Wait and see. Didn't we get away with Consolidated?" Findlater flung an uneasy glance at his wife. Harry Lorenz turned serious. "Don't shout until you're out of the woods; you're not through with that case yet! What's become of your old pal Armstrong?" "He's headed for the high places," said Macgowan coolly. "Going to jail, and soon." He glanced up and smiled slightly at Mrs. Fowler. "Academically speaking, he's headed for prison. At least, I had a tip that such is the case. I'm shedding no tears." There was a general laugh, and then Hemingway intervened. "Ready, Mrs. Fowler?" he piped up hopefully, and a chord from the piano silenced the talk. Macgowan leaned forward, intent, drinking in the music with eager senses. He was supremely content with the world, supremely confident in himself and his ability. This was his hour of relaxation, of triumph. Success had crowned his talents, and in the past week he had been drinking deep from the cup of victory. As the final chords of the music died away, Macgowan was aware of the maid, who leaned over his shoulder with a quiet word. "There's a gentleman in the hall, sir, who wants to see you. He wouldn't give his name or come inside." Macgowan nodded, and under cover of the applause, rose and left the room. He passed out into the entrance-hall and closed the room door behind him. The closing of that door was symbolic, had he but known it. He found himself face to face with Robert Dorns, and behind Dorns was the blue-clad figure of an officer. "Come along, Mac," said Dorns. CHAPTER X