Douglas Hunter sighed involuntarily as he left busy Fourteenth Street, and walked down Massachusetts Avenue. Twelve years' absence makes a great difference in the ever-shifting population of Washington. He felt like another Rip Van Winkle as he gazed at each passer-by in his search for a familiar face. Even the streets had changed, and he was almost appalled by the grandeur of some of the huge white palaces erected by multimillionaires on Massachusetts and New Hampshire Avenues, and the Avenue of the Presidents. He had spent part of the morning motoring about the city with one of his cousins, and the outward and visible signs of wealth had staggered him. What had become of the unpretentious, generous-hearted hospitality, and the old world manners and courtly greeting of the former host and hostess who had ruled so long at the National Capital? Had Mammon spoiled the old simplicity, and had Washington become but a suburb of New York and Chicago? It truly seemed as if plutocracy had displaced aristocracy. As Douglas approached the Carew residence he glanced keenly at the handsome old mansion and at the numerous idlers loafing in the vicinity drawn there by idle curiosity. A policeman stood on guard in the driveway, and a number of photographers loitered near by, cameras in hand, waiting patiently to snapshot any member of the Carew family who might incautiously venture out of doors. The house itself, a handsome square red brick and stone trimmed four-storied building, stood some distance back from the sidewalk with beautifully kept lawns divided by the carriage drive. The blinds were drawn and the ominous black streamer over the bell presented a mournful spectacle. It was the finest residence in that once fashionable locality, and Douglas decided that he preferred its solid, home-like architecture to the more ornate and pretentious dwellings in other parts of the city. As the years went by Senator Carew had added improvements until the residence was one of the most delightful in Washington. As Douglas turned into the walk, a large touring car wheeled into the driveway, and as it purred softly by him, he stepped back respectfully and raised his hat to the tired-faced man sitting alone in the _tonneau_. He did not need to glance at the small coat-of-arms of the United States emblazoned on the polished door, or at the two Secret Service men following on their motor cycles, to recognize the distinguished occupant of the car. As the motor stopped under the _porte-cochère_, the colored butler ran down the steps, and the President leaned forward and placed a note in the bowing and scraping negro's hand; then the big car continued on down the driveway and out into the street. Douglas waited where he was for a few minutes before mounting the short flight of steps. The hall door was opened several inches on his approach, and Joshua solemnly extended his card tray, which Douglas waved aside. "I called to see Mr. Brett; is he here?" he asked.