Also Tom noticed four men-servants, all of them well built and all of them owning faces that somehow were not servant faces. The revolver, which had seemed amply sufficient outside, seemed less so within the house. Supposing he killed one--or even two--the other two would down him in an affray. He tightened his grip on the revolver and planned and rehearsed a shooting affair in which four men in livery were disabled with four shots. A great pity E. H. Merriwether was such a very rich man--a great pity for his son Tom. At a door, on the center panel of which was a monogram in black, red, and gold the last of the footmen knocked gently. The door was thereupon opened from within. “Mr. Thomas Thome Merriwether, 7-7-77!” announced the intelligent-looking footman, with a very pronounced English accent. Mr. Thomas Thorne Merriwether entered. It was a _nouveau-riche_ library. The Circassian-walnut bookcases and center-table were over-elaborately carved, and the hangings of rich red velvet were over-elaborately embroidered. The bronzes on the over-elaborate mantel looked as though they had been placed there by somebody who was coming back in a minute to take them away again. Altogether the apartment suggested a salesroom, and there was a note of incongruity in a golden-oak filing-cabinet of the Grand Rapids school. At one end of the room in an arm-chair, with his back to a terrible stained-glass window, sat a man of about forty. He had a calm, remarkably steady gaze, with a sort of leisureliness about it that made you think of a drawling voice. Also, an assurance--a self-consciousness of knowledge--that was compelling. His chin was firm and there was a suggestion of power and of control over power that reminded Tom of a very competent engineer in charge of a fifty-thousand-horse-power machine. “Kindly be seated, sir,” said the man in a tone that subtly suggested weariness. Tom sat down and looked curiously at the man, who went on: “Sir, I have a question to ask you. If you see fit to answer, be good enough to answer it spontaneously and in good faith. Do not, I beg you, in turn, ask me questions--such as, for example, why I wish to know what I ask. If you decide not to answer you will leave this house unharmed, accompanied by our profound regret that you should be so unintelligent at your life's crisis.” The man looked at Tom with a meditative expression, then nodded to himself almost sorrowfully. Tom, though young, was a Merriwether. He said, politely, “Let me hear the question, sir.” He himself was thinking in questions: What can the question be? Who is this man? What is the game? What will be the end of it all? “One question, sir,” repeated the stranger. “I am listening, sir,” Tom assured him, with a quiet, but quite impressive, earnestness. “_Where did you spend your vacation at the end of your Freshman year?”_ Tom was so surprised, and even disappointed, that he hesitated. Then he answered: