On the eleventh day after this interview between the two men who, between them, practically held the whole world in their grasp, Herzog telephoned up from Oakwood Heights and took the liberty of informing Flint that his experiments had reached a point of such success that he prayed Flint would condescend to visit the laboratories in person. Flint, after some reflection, decided he would so condescend; and forthwith ordered his limousine from his private garage on William Street. Thereafter he called Waldron on the 'phone, at his Fifth Avenue address. "Mr. Waldron is not up, yet, sir," a carefully-modulated voice answered over the wire. "Any message I can give him, sir?" "Oh, hello! That you, Edwards?" Flint demanded, recognizing the suave tones of his partner's valet. "Yes, sir." "All right. Tell Waldron I'll call for him in half an hour with the limousine. And mind, now, I want him to be up and dressed! We're going down to Staten Island. Got that?" "Yes, sir. Any other message, sir?" "No. But be sure you get him up, for me! Good-bye!" Thirty minutes later, Flint's chauffeur opened the door of the big limousine, in front of the huge Renaissance pile that Waldron's millions had raised on land which had cost him more than as though he had covered it with double eagles; and Flint himself ascended the steps of Pentelican marble. The limousine, its varnish and silver-plate flashing in the bright spring sun, stood by the curb, purring softly to itself with all six cylinders, a thing of matchless beauty and rare cost. The chauffeur, on the driver's seat, did not even bother to shut off the gas, but let the engine run, regardless. To have stopped it would have meant some trifling exertion, in starting again; and since Flint never considered such details as a few gallons of gasoline, why should _he_ care? Lighting a Turkish cigarette, this aristocrat of labor lolled on the padded leather and indifferently--with more of contempt than of interest--regarded a swarm of iron-workers, masons and laborers at work on a new building across the avenue. Flint, meanwhile, had entered the great mansion, its bronze doors--ravished from the Palazzo Guelfo at Venice--having swung inward to admit him, with noiseless majesty. Ignoring the doorman, he addressed himself to Edwards, who stood in the spacious, mahogany-panelled hall, washing both hands with imaginary soap. "Waldron up, yet, Edwards?" "No, sir. He--er--I have been unable--" "The devil! Where is he?" "In his apartments, sir." "Take me up!" "He said, sir," ventured Edwards, in his smoothest voice. "He said--" "I don't give a damn what he said! Take me up, at once!" "Yes, sir. Immediately, sir!" And he gestured suavely toward the elevator.