His eyes never left the alienist's own secret-draggers; but he was drumming on his thigh with the tips of his uncontrollable fingers. Ordinarily his desk would have screened from sight this betrayal of human feeling. “Your son, sir, is suffering, beyond any question, from the oldest madness of all--love!” “What?” “Your son Tom is in love. That is what ails him.” “Are you serious?” Mr. Merriwether was frowning fiercely now. “You'll think so,” retorted Frauenthal, coldly, “when you get my bill.” “My boy Tom in love?” repeated the czar, blankly. “Yes.” “With whom?” “I don't know. I'm a neurologist--not a soothsayer.” “Well, suppose he is in love--what of it?” “Nothing--to me.” “Then what is serious about it?” “I can't tell you, for its seriousness to you depends on your point of view toward society at large. There are, of course, the obvious disquieting circumstances.” “For instance?” “He is a fine chap--healthy, bright, honest. What is the reason he has said nothing to you? Is he ashamed or afraid? If he is ashamed it is very serious to both of you. If he is afraid--well, then the seriousness depends on how intelligent a father you have been to him.” “Don't talk like a damned fool! I've been a good father to him; of course--” “Wait! Wait! First tell me why you do what you ask me not to do?” In the specialist's eyes was a sort of professional curiosity. “What do you mean?” said E. H. Merriwether, impatiently. It exasperated him to be puzzled. “Why do you talk like a damned fool?” said Frauenthal. Nobody ever talked that way to Mr. E. H. Merriwether, overlord of the greatest railroad empire in history. He flushed and was about to retort angrily, but controlled himself in time. The brougham had reached Frauenthal's office. Mr. Merriwether spoke too calmly--you could feel the tense restraint: “Dr. Frauenthal, I've heard a great deal of your wonderful ability.” He paused. It came hard to him to be ingratiating. This difficulty is the revenge which nature takes on people who acquire the habit of 'paying money for everything in this world. Such men cannot talk except with a check-book, and the check-book loses the power of speech before happiness--and before death. “What very difficult thing is it you wish me to do for you?” asked Frauenthal, coldly. “You are sure Tom is not--” He hesitated. “Crazy?” prompted the specialist. “Yes.” “Yes; I'm sure he is not. Therefore he is saner than you who are a money-maker.” Mr. Merriwether let this remark pass. He was anxious to save Tom. This man was uncannily sharp. He said, “And can't you do something, so that Tom will not--” “I am not God!” interrupted Frauenthal. “Then, what can I do? What do you suggest might be done?” “As a neurologist?” “Yes.” “Nothing.” “Then, as a man of the world--as one who knows human nature? You see, this--this--er--sort of thing is not in my line. What shall I do?” It was a terrible thing for the great Merriwether to confess inefficiency in anything.