“About my son,” he said. “Tommy?” The great railroad magnate, accustomed to the deference even of the self-appointed owners of the United States, flushed with anger. Had things gone so far that such intimacy existed? “I understand,” he said, trying to speak emotionlessly, “that my son visits this house.” “Of his own volition, sir.” “I did not think there was physical coercion; but, of course, as his father--” He stopped in the middle of the sentence. This never before had happened to this man, who always knew what to do and what to say, and always did it and said it with the least expenditure of time and words; but, as a matter of fact, what could he say, and how? “That relationship,” the man said, calmly, “often interferes with the exercise of what people formerly called common sense. Will you please do me a very great favor, sir?” “A favor?” Mr. Merriwether, skilful diplomatist though he could be at times, now frowned in advance. “Yes, Mr. Merriwether--indeed, two favors; or rather, three. First: Will you please ask me no questions now? Second: Will you please return to this house at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning? And third: Will you promise not to speak to your son about your visit here until after you have paid your second call, to-morrow?” It flashed through Mr. Merriwether's mind that to grant the favors might expedite Tom's appalling marriage. He said, decisively: “I cannot promise any of the things you ask.” “Very well,” said the man, composedly. “Then, I take it, there is nothing more to be said.” He rose politely, and as he did so pressed a button on the table. The footman appeared and held the door open for Mr. Merriwether to pass out. The autocrat of fifteen thousand miles of railroad, with unlimited credit in the money-markets of the world, was not accustomed to being treated like this: but, precisely because he felt hot anger rising in tidal waves to his brow, he instantly became cool. He remained sitting, and said, very politely: “If you will allow me, sir, to tell you that my reasons--” The man, who was still standing, held up a hand and broke in: “And if you will allow me to tell you that I am neither a criminal nor a jackass I shall then proceed to say that nobody in this house has any intention of entering into any argument or controversy with you. I am actuated much less by personal considerations of my own than by a desire to avert from you eternal regrets and--er--unseemly displays of temper.” E. H. Merriwether knew exactly what he would like to do to this man. What he said--very mildly--was: “You must admit, sir, that your requests might be interpreted--”