“Wait for me--I’ve more important work for you.” Waldron rose and drew Villard and Mora aside. Without ceremony he placed five yellow-backed one hundred dollar bills in Villard’s hands and a single one in Mora’s. “We hold a great Peace rally to launch the popular movement against this bill to establish militarism in the United States. The classes who cherish varied theories of peace will join us. The Honorable Plato Barker is at the moment the leader of the peace yodelers. He is a professional lecturer who loves the sound of his own voice. He knows you, Villard, and prizes your opinions on Peace--” Villard gave a dry little laugh. “You will personally see the Honorable Plato and secure him as our principal speaker. And you, Mora, happen to know the Reverend A. Cuthbert Pike, D.D., President of the American Peace Union. His church maintains some missionaries in your benighted native land. His office is at the Bible House. I want him to introduce the Honorable Plato Barker--” Mora smiled and bowed, and the two hurried to execute their orders. Villard’s car was waiting. The master of the house took Meyer’s arm, led him to the corner of the library and for half an hour gave explicit instructions in low tones. Before showing Meyer to the door another roll of bills was duly delivered for defraying the expenses of his important work. The enthusiast brought his heels together with a sharp click, saluted and hurried down the broad stairs. He declined the offer of an automobile. He didn’t like millionaires. He only used them. Waldron watched him go with a curious smile, drew on his gloves and called for his hat and cane. The flunkey who hovered near obeyed the order with quick servility and stood watching his master go by the broad porte-cochère, wondering why the order had not been given him for the car. Waldron signaled his night chauffeur, and the big limousine darted to the stoop. As the driver leaned out to receive his orders, Waldron spoke in low tones: “To Miss Virginia Holland’s on Stuyvesant Square--” The driver nodded and closed the door of the limousine. He had been there before. CHAPTER II Virginia Holland, at her desk preparing an address on the Modern Feminist Movement, dropped her pencil and raised her head with a look of startled surprise at the cry of a newsboy in the street below. The whole block seemed to vibrate with his uncanny yell: “Wuxtra! Wuxtra!” A sense of impending calamity caught her heart for a moment. It was a morbid fancy, of course, and yet the cry of the boy kept ringing a personal warning. Work impossible, she opened her door, called and asked her brother Billy to get a copy of the paper. Before he returned her anxiety had increased to the point of pain. She rapidly descended the stairs and waited at the door.