Take immediate action. Will back you to the limit, and beyond. Ten thousand bonus if you land him behind bars inside a week. Stop at nothing, but get results. F. This he folded and put in an envelope which he addressed to Slade, and was about to seal, when another idea struck him. "By God!" he exclaimed, smiting the desk. "It won't do to have this just some ordinary charge. The thing has got to be disgraceful, unpardonable, hideous! "There are two things to be considered now. One is to 'get' him, in connection with that red book of my plans--to head him off from making any possible trouble in the development of the Air Trust. "The other is--Kate! Nothing catches a woman, like martyrdom. If anything happens to this cur, and she suspects that I've done it, out of spite, all Hell can't hold her. I know her well enough for _that_. No, this fellow has got to be put away on some charge that will absolutely and utterly ruin him, in her eyes, for good and all--that will blast and wreck him, forever, with her. Something that, when I tell her, will fill her with loathing and horror. Something that will cause a terrible and complete revulsion of feeling in her, and bring her back to Waldron, as to a strong refuge in time of trouble. Something that will crush and quell her, utterly cure her of those idiotic, school-girl notions of hers, and make her--as she should be--submissive to my will and my demands!" He pondered a moment, an ugly, crafty smile on those old lips of his; then, struck by sudden inspiration, laughed a dry, harsh laugh. "The very thing!" he exulted, with the mirth of a vulture that has just found a peculiarly revolting mass of carrion. "Fool that I was, not to have thought of it before!" Hastily he withdrew the letter from the envelope, opened it, and with eager hand wrote three short sentences. He read these over, nodded approval, and this time sealed and addressed the letter. Then he pushed an electric button over the desk. "Have this letter carried to this address at once," he commanded Slawson. "Mr. Dillon Slade, 432 Highland Avenue, Rutherford, N. J. See? Special delivery won't do. Have Sanders take it at once, in the racer. No answer required. And after you've seen it start on its way, come back here. I want to go to bed." "Yes, sir. All right, sir," the valet bowed as he took the letter and departed. Ten minutes later, he was back again, helping old Flint undress. Long after the Billionaire was in bed, in the big, luxurious room, with its windows open toward the river--the room guarded all night by armed men in the house and on the lawn outside--he lay there thinking of his plot, chuckling to himself over its infernal cunning, and filled with joy at the prospects now opening out ahead of him.