Uncle and nephew went down to the cafe together, as Mrs. Howard and Alice were out making calls. Mr. Howard was full of the great traction deal--the deal that was to be his climatic exit, and Drexel’s triumphant entrance, as a great financial figure--and he rapidly sketched a summary of the developments of the three months that Drexel had been in Russia. They had practically got control of all the street-railway franchises of Chicago for a long term; and had acted so quietly that the city had not a guess of what was going on. They expected to break up the system into separate lines and discontinue the transfers, and thus get millions of extra nickels a year from the people; and to reorganize, and in that process to net some fifteen million dollars from unsophisticated investors by the everyday miracle of turning water into stock; and to perform some of the other feats of financial legerdemain by which kings of business win and maintain their sovereignty. All of which astute and mighty brigandage seemed as proper and legitimate to Drexel as it did to his uncle. One was a founder of a business school, the other an apt pupil; and the fundamental idea of that school was that one’s business concerned no one but one’s self. “Now tell me about things here,” said Mr. Howard. “I’ve talked with your aunt, but I want to hear from you. You’ve quite got over that--eh--little feeling for Alice?” “Quite,” said Drexel. “I knew you would.” He nodded his head. “And Alice? You remember when the news of the engagement came to us in Chicago, you spoke of an affair--not like yours, but a real one--between her and Jack Hammond. Has she been acting much like the romantic damsel with a broken heart?” Visions of his pretty cousin rose before Drexel’s mind--at balls splendid with brilliant uniforms and glittering gowns--at grand dinners where sat none but those of proud and noble lineage; and at all he saw Alice dazzled, happy, exulting with girlish pride that her place was soon to be among the highest of these. “Much of a heartbreak?” persisted the old man. “I must admit,” Drexel acknowledged slowly, “that Jack Hammond doesn’t seem to trouble her much.” “Just as I told you it would be!” They were silent a moment, during which Drexel bowed to a woman sitting at a near-by table; and he gave an inward start as he saw the tall, well-dressed man with a swart Mephistophelian handsomeness, who sat at table with her. It was Freeman, the terrorist. Mr. Howard’s sharp eyes had followed his nephew’s glance. “Say, but she’s a stunner!” he ejaculated. And she was--a superb compromise between blond and brunette, in the first fulness of womanhood, with the ease and grace and rather confident smile of the acknowledged beauty, and gowned in a green robe that had all the richness and distinction that the Parisian modistes of French St. Petersburg could give it. “Who is she?” Mr. Howard asked. “Countess Baronova. She’s a widow. Her husband was killed in the Japanese war.”