And now it will be necessary (my readers will be relieved to learn) to jump forward some thirty years. This obviously takes us to September, 19--. Let us, on this fine September morning, take a peep into "No.----, Throgneedle Street, E.C.," and see how the business of the mother city is carried on. On the fourth floor we come to the sanctum of the great man himself. "Mr. Felix Mountenay--No admittance," is painted upon the outer door. It is a name which is known and feared all over Europe. Mr. Mountenay's private detective stands on one side of the door; on the other side is Mr. Mountenay's private wolfhound. Murmuring the word, "Press," however, we pass hastily through, and find ourselves before Mr. Mountenay himself. Mr. Mountenay is at work; let us watch him through a typical five minutes. For a moment he stands meditating in the middle of the room. Kings are tottering on their thrones. Empires hang upon his nod. What will he decide? Suddenly he blows a cloud of smoke from his cigar, and rushes to the telephone. "Hallo! Is that you, Jones?... What are Margarine _Prefs._ at?... _What?_ ... No, Margarine Prefs. idiot.... Ah! Then sell. Keep on selling till I tell you to stop.... Yes." He hangs up the receiver. For two minutes he paces the room, smoking rapidly. He stops a moment ... but it is only to remove his cigar-band, which is in danger of burning. Then he resumes his pacings. Another minute goes rapidly by. He rushes to the telephone again. "Hallo! Is that you, Jones?... What are Margarine Prefs. down to now?... Ah! Then buy. Keep on buying.... Yes." He hangs up the receiver. By this master-stroke he has made a quarter of a million. It may seem to you or me an easy way of doing it. Ah, but what, we must ask ourselves, of the great brain that conceived the idea, the foresight which told the exact moment when to put it into action, the cool courage which seized the moment--what of the grasp of affairs, the knowledge of men? Ah! Can we grudge it him, that he earns a quarter of a million more quickly than we do? Yet Mr. Felix Mountenay is not happy. When we have brought off a coup for a hundred thousand even, we smile gaily. Mr. Mountenay did not smile. Fiercely he bit another inch off his cigar and muttered to himself. The words were "Leo Abraham! Wait!" * * * * * This is positively the last row of stars. Let us take advantage of them to jump forward another month. It was October 1st, 19--. (If that was a Sunday, then it was October 2nd. Anyhow, it was October.) Mr. Felix Mountenay was sleeping in his office. For once that iron brain relaxed. He had made a little over three million in the last month and the strain was too much for him. But a knock at the door restored him instantly to his own cool self. "I beg your pardon, Sir," said his secretary, "but somebody is selling zinc."