The man sighed. Then he said, “I'll tell you, of course.” He then told Tom's father about the message in the dark that Tom had carried. “But he couldn't believe it!” exclaimed Mr. Merriwether. “No; he couldn't--but he did. Of course I have taken you behind the scenes---that is, I have opened your eyes and turned your head in the proper direction and held it firmly there and shouted, 'Look!' And of course you see the machinery standing still and you can't imagine it in motion. You are not as imaginative as I thought you were.” “Huh!” said E. H. Merriwether, thoughtfully. Then after a pause he said: “I see the wheels revolving. Ingenious!” “More than that, practical! My object in having Tom fall in love with love, suggesting that there was one girl born to be his bride, accentuated by my use of the sweet-peas odor as a _leit-motif_, was to have something to offer you which would be cheap at a million. The next step was to make Tom do foolish things--for effect on you. First, to make you fear Tom was crazy. I had a girl who knew young Waters talk to him about Tom's new and alarming queerness and suggest that he telephone to Mr. E. H. Merriwether. Of course Waters wouldn't telephone--and of course I did. And, of course, if you had disbelieved or suspected you would have sent for young Mr. Waters and he would have denied the telephone, but admitted the queer actions of Tom and the fact that people were talking about them. That would have allayed any suspicion you might have entertained. So I stage-managed the opera scene and the Boston trip to make you fear the worst. In that frame of mind you could be induced to come here voluntarily. I sent Tully to you. You had to come!” “Very clever!” said Mr. Merriwether, with a thoughtful absence of enthusiasm. “Therefore,” continued the man as if he had not heard the other's interpolation, “your son, being full of the thought of love and, even worse, of marrying the mate that Fate selected for him five million years ago, is now ready to marry any girl that smells of sweet peas. We thought that, instead of vulgarly extracting the million from you by torture or threats, we would place you in our debt by perpetuating the Merriwether dynasty. Hence the preparation of eight very nice girls--three of them in your own set, three others children of people you know, and the remaining two equally desirable but less historical, as it were.” “Who are they?” If Mr. Merriwether was to pay a million he might as well see the label. “Cynthia, Agnes, and Isabel, daughters respectively of Gordon Hammersly, William Murray, and Vanderpoel Woodford. Any objections?” “No; but you can't--” “Yes, I can. Also, Louise Emlen, daughter of Marbury Emlen, the lawyer--” “He's a crook!” interrupted Mr. Merriwether.