She was no longer free to command. Alfred had come into his own. He was a man. She was proud of him. The time had come for her to be humble in the light of his glory, and she was content to lay aside the authority with which she had cloaked her love and ambition for so long. _His_ word had become her law. She had two men in her family now. Slowly but surely she was giving them to understand that she was their woman, and that she knew her place. She had been for twenty-two years the wife of one of them, and for twenty years the mother of the other. Carstairs was rich. He was a man of affairs, a man of power and distinction in the councils of that exalted class known as the leaders of finance. He represented one of the soundest vertebrae in the back-bone of the nation in these times of war. With a loyalty that incurred a tremendous amount of self-sacrifice, he had offered all of his vital energy, all of his heart, to the cause of the people. He was on many boards, he was in touch with all the great enterprises that worked for the comfort, the support and the encouragement of those who went forth to give their lives if need be in the turmoil' of war. Davenport Carstairs stood for all that was fine and strong in practical idealism, which, after all, is the basis of all things truly American. As he stood inside the study door, watching with some intensity the face of his son, he was suddenly conscious of a feeling of dread, not associated with the recent grave event, but something new that was creeping, as it were, along the wire that reached its end in the receiver glued to Alfred's ear. He glanced at his wife. She suddenly exhaled the breath she was holding and smiled faintly into his concerned eyes. “Yes,--” said Alfred, impatiently, after a long pause,--“Yes, this is Mr. Carstairs' home.... I am his son.... What?... Yes, he's here, but can't you give me the message?... Who are you?... What?... Certainly I'll call him, but... Here, father; it's some one who insists on speaking to you personally.” He set the receiver down on the table with a sharp bang, and straightened up to his full height as if resenting an indignity. [Illustration: 0051] Carstairs took up the receiver. He realized that his hand trembled. He had never known it to happen before, even in moments of great stress. “_Yes_, this is Davenport Carstairs. Who are you, please?” He started slightly at the crisp, business-like reply. “Bellevue Hospital? Police surgeon--What? Just a moment, please. Now, go ahead.” He had seated himself in the great library chair at the end of the table. “Yes; my butler's name is Hodges.... An Englishman.... What?... What has happened, officer?... Good God!... I--Why, certainly, I shall come down at once if necessary. I--can identify him, of course.... Yes, tomorrow morning will suit me better.... Hold the wire a moment, please.”