“For an expert in telegnomy--if that is what you call the thing--you are surprisingly slow to grasp my meaning. Never since we said good-by to you in Lime Street Station has this spook business troubled Karl in the least. He has done some remarkable things, it is true. I have seen him make people jump nearly out of their skins, but only by way of a joke. The women call him ‘The Magnet,’ you know. Oh, you hadn’t heard that? There is nothing in it but sheer fun. He wouldn’t look at a girl until I spoke to him seriously a couple of months ago, and then he told me that he was quite ready to marry the first girl I chose for him. So Sandilands and I fixed matters.” “Did you?” There must have been a note of irony in my voice. Grier bounced round in the carriage, and I may mention, as a matter of personal observation, that the accumulation of riches tends to shorten a man’s temper. “Yes, we did,” he snapped, “and, what is more, we fixed matters uncommonly well. Karl cared as much for Nora as for any other nice young woman of his acquaintance, while she was infatuated about him. Just the right combination, to my thinking, in a marriage which is intended to start a man on a great career.” “Ach Himmel!” I murmured. “Where is the planter of my youth? Does Mrs. Grier subscribe to that sentiment?” Even as I spoke, I felt sorry for the bantering tone I was adopting. It may be that I was tired after my journey, or that my old friend’s sudden announcement of his son’s engagement had driven all other considerations from my mind, but assuredly I would not have wrung a father’s heart if I had guessed how he was suffering. He caught my arm, and the glare of light from the hotel entrance, at which the carriage was then pulling up, showed me a face haggard and convulsed with pain. “Don’t!” he almost sobbed. “I can’t stand it. My God, have you forgotten how Constantine died?” “My dear fellow--” I began, but a Swiss hall-porter in the undress uniform of a British field-marshal was at the open door. Though wretchedly ashamed of myself, what could I say? I was tongue-tied with surprise. Had things reached such a pitch that Grier was trembling for his son’s sanity? Nothing short of some terrible crisis could have wrung that cry of despair from a man of the money-making temperament. To be sure, we are apt to err greatly when we describe a millionaire as “callous,” “steel-nerved,” and other foolish epithets of that ilk. Constantine was a millionaire, and he was as sensitive as a plate full of iron filings exposed to the influence of static electricity. And then, look at A. and B., men whom you hear of daily; their hyper-nervousness is a matter of common knowledge. Of course I put things right with Grier when we were alone once more. By that time, the momentary rift in the cloud which revealed the grim abyss had vanished. His face was impenetrable as a dense fog; the cold intellect had subdued the throbbing heart.