The American Republic is but a lusty youth of untried strength among the nations of earth. The real battle between the Crown and the People for the mastery of the world is yet to be fought. Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty today as yesterday and forever. CHAPTER I The liveried flunkey entered the stately library and bowed: “You rang, sir?” He scarcely breathed the words. In every tone spoke the old servile humility of the creature in the presence of his creator the King. He might have said, “Sire.” His voice, his straight-set eyes, his bowed body, did say it. His master continued the conversation with the two men without lifting his head. He merely flung the order with studied carelessness: “Lights, Otto--the table only.” The servant bowed low, pressed the electric switch, and softly left the room, walking backward as before royalty. The two men with Charles Waldron in his palatial house in New York passed the incident apparently without knowledge of its significance. An American-born boy of fourteen, seeing it twenty-five years ago, would have wondered where on earth the creature came from. Of one thing he would have been certain--this flunkey could not have been made in the United States of America. Within the past quarter of a century, however, the imported menial has become one of our institutions and he is the outward sign of a momentous change within the mind of the class who have ruled our society. The crown-embossed electric lantern above the massive table in the center of the room flooded the gold and scarlet cloth with light. Waldron with a quick gesture of command spoke sharply: “Be seated, gentlemen.” The two men instinctively brought their heels together and took seats within the circle of light. The master of the house paused a moment in deep thought before the stately Louis XIV window looking out on the broad waters of the Hudson. His yacht, a huge ocean greyhound whose nose had scented the channels of every harbor of the world, lay at anchor in the stream along the heights of upper Manhattan, her keen prow bent seaward by the swift tide. The strong face of the master of men was flushed with an inward fire. His gray eyes glowed. His jaws suddenly came together with decision. He turned from the window as if to join the two at the table and paused in his tracks studying the face of Meyer, the tall angular fellow who was evidently impatient at the delay. Waldron had suddenly made up his mind to trust this man with a most important mission. And yet he disliked him. He was the type that must be used, but held with an iron hand--the modern enthusiast with scientific knowledge. The smaller man, Mora, was easy--the nose of a ferret, coarse black cropped beard and thick sensuous lips. He could be managed--yes. He could be trusted--yes.