After that, Gilderman did not say anything more. But in the few words he had said he had begun almost to convince himself that the miracles of which the world was beginning to talk were really worthy of attention. The next morning, after an eleven-o'clock breakfast aboard the yacht, Gilderman had himself driven down to his office. After the freshness of the open air at the sea-side, the city felt like a steaming oven. Gilderman sat leaning back in the brougham smoking and looking out upon the hot bustle of the street. The ceaselessly streaming crowds on the sidewalk hurried and jostled and pushed, paying no attention to the heat or to their fellow-men or to heaven or to hell, or to anything but the business they were just then so intent upon--each man a little life in himself shut out from all the other little lives around him. A bulletin was posted on a board in front of a newspaper-office--a square of brownish paper covered with ink-drawn characters. Half a dozen men stood looking at it, but the stream of humanity flowed by, neither thinking of nor caring for the words posted above their heads. In large letters it proclaimed that John the Baptist had been executed the night before. It brought a singular shock to Gilderman, who was still impressed by the recollection of the brief talk that he had had with his father-in-law. He said to himself, as he sat leaning back in the carriage, "It's a confounded shame!" He thought about it intermittently all the way down to the office and until the brougham stopped at the sidewalk and he got out. The office was on the first floor of an imposing brown-stone building. Over the great, glazed doors were carved in relief the words: "GILDERMAN BUILDING." On both sides of the plate-glass windows that looked out into the busy street were gilt letters: "OFFICE OF THE GILDERMAN ESTATE." Now the windows were open, and through them he could see the clerks busy over the books. They looked warm, and wore linen or madras jackets. Mr. Wright, the manager, was standing with the cashier looking over a book. They neither of them saw him. "You may come for me at three o'clock," Gilderman said to the man, who stood holding open the door of the brougham. And then he turned and went up the steps and through the swinging-door. The electric-fans were whirring, and the air felt cool after the hot street outside. He went directly through to the manager's room beyond. Those whom he passed turned and looked after him; he was used to having men look after him in that way. He felt that the fact of his presence became almost instantly known throughout the entire office. There was a silent, indescribable movement among the clerks. He saw the cashier speak to Mr. Wright, the manager, who looked up sharply.