“It doesn’t matter whether they go up or down. Dealing in American rails is playing roulette against a croupier who can make the ball roll where he likes.” The spectacle of all these men feverishly engaged in the hunt for gold had excited Alistair in sympathy. For a moment he felt a pale reflex of their passion, and wished that he too could be among the winners instead of the losers. “How do men make money?” he asked wistfully of the millionaire. “No one can make money,” the rich man replied grimly, “in this world. He can only take it. And the only way to take it is to be a little more greedy and cunning than the man you take it from.” It was the gospel of Mammon. And Alistair Stuart knew that here at least he could never find salvation. On their return to George Yard, Mendes was stopped in the outer office by the gentleman who had interviewed Alistair. He excused himself to Stuart for a few minutes, and nearly a quarter of an hour elapsed before Alistair again found himself in the financier’s room. “Well, I have heard something about your friend,” Mendes said grimly, as he sat down. Alistair’s heart sank at the Brazilian’s tone. He waited for him to speak. Mendes went on deliberately. “Perhaps I ought to say I have heard something about his father. I don’t suppose this young fellow is anything more than a tool.” “What have you heard?” “I have heard this: that the last time he got a quarter of a million out of a confiding Greek in order to make a descent on his kingdom, as he calls it, he spent the whole of the money on his own pleasures, without ever going within five hundred miles of the frontier.” “I don’t think Don Juan would do that,” Alistair protested. “He will not get the chance,” the other said brutally. “We are going to lend no more money to these kings of the hooligans.” “You think he has no chance of success?” “I don’t think those who are behind him want him to succeed, if you are speaking of Don Juan.” “But whom do you mean? Who are behind him?” asked the bewildered Stuart. The South American gave him a doubtful glance. “You’re a Catholic, aren’t you?” “No,” said Alistair. “Half a one, I suspect. All you people cling together, I notice. Decadents, Legitimists, or whatever you call yourselves, it comes to much the same thing. I haven’t watched you all this time for nothing.” “I am not a Christian at all,” said Alistair. “What has that got to do with it? That man Des Louvres is about as much of a Christian as this table, but he is a very good son of the Church--one of the best agents they have got, I fancy.” “I can assure you that you are mistaken if you think I have any Catholic sympathies,” Alistair protested emphatically. “I am a Pagan, pure and simple.” “So is the Roman Church, according to the Protestants,” sneered Mendes. “But I am quite ready to take your word for it. I don’t suppose Des Louvres has told you any more than he was obliged to.” Alistair remained silent, too much offended to reply.