“Will you kindly make our prisoner as comfortable as possible, Miss Holland,” Waldron said in his even metallic voice, “while I give some orders outside. You’ll find the library at your disposal.” “Thank you,” Virginia answered, mounting the steps without further ceremony. A feeling of resentment swept John Vassar. How dare this bully assume such familiarity with Virginia Holland! She had met him as a patron of the cause of woman’s suffrage. One would think he had the right to her soul and body by the way he asked her to act as the hostess of his establishment. The thought that enraged him was that the banker was so cocksure of himself, his position. No robber baron of the Middle Ages could have felt more irresponsible in the exercise of his power. The consciousness of this power oozed from the fat pores of Waldron’s skin. He exuded the idea as he breathed. Vassar’s first impression on entering the great house confirmed his idea of the man’s character. The whole conception of the place rested squarely on the royal splendors of the Old World. The lines of the huge building were a combination of two famous castles of medieval France, both the homes of kings. The great hall was an exact copy in form and decoration of the throne room of Napoleon in the palace at Versailles. His library walls above the bookcases bristled with arms and armor. Anything more utterly undemocratic could not have been found in the centers of Europe. The atmosphere of the place was stifling. Vassar turned to Virginia with a movement of impatience. “You like this?” he asked. “I think it very imposing,” was the diplomatic answer. “So do I,” he snapped, “and that’s why I loathe it. Such ostentation in a democracy whose life is just beginning can mean but one thing. The man who built this castle to crown the highest hill of a city is capable of building a throne in the East Room of the White House if the time ever comes that he dares--” Virginia shook her head good-humoredly. “I’m afraid you’re prejudiced against our patron saint.” “No,” Vassar answered steadily, “I’m not prejudiced. I hate him with the hatred that is uncompromising--that’s all. There’s not room for the two things for which we stand in this republic. One of us must live, the other die.” “I suppose a woman doesn’t look on such a house as this with your eyes,” she answered smiling. “No, that’s just it--you don’t--and it’s one of the reasons why I’m afraid of you--” Vassar turned to examine the collection of chain armor at the end of the room without waiting for her answer. He was in a bad humor. The place had gotten on his nerves. When he returned again, regretting his curt speech, she was standing at the entrance talking in low tones to Waldron. His footstep had made no sound on the cushion of oriental rugs which covered the inlaid marble floor. Without so much as a look his way she passed Waldron and left the library.