And at that instant his keen chisel cut deeply into the revolving ivory with a harsh, sawing sound that rendered further conversation impossible. I stood behind watching him. His grand old head was bent keenly over his work as he hollowed out the box to the desired depth, carefully gauged it, finished it, and quickly turned the lid until it fitted with precision and exactness. Then he rubbed it down, polished it in several ways, and at last handed it to me complete, saying,-- “There is a little souvenir, Miss Rosselli, of your first visit to me.” “Thank you ever so much,” I answered, taking it and examining it curiously. Truly he was a skilled workman, this man whose colossal wealth was remarkable even among the many millionaires in the United States. “I ask only one favor,” he said, as we passed out and he locked the door of his workshop behind us,--“that you will tell no one of my hobby--that I have returned to my own trade. For Gerald’s sake I am compelled to keep up an appearance, and some of his friends would sneer if they knew that his father still worked and earned money in his odd moments.” “Do you earn money?” I inquired, amazed. “Certainly. A firm in Bond Street, London, buy all my ivory work, only they are not, of course, aware that it comes from me. It wouldn’t do, you know. My work, you see, provides me with a little pocket-money. It has done so ever since I left the factory,” he added simply. “I promise you, Mr. Keppel, that I’ll tell no one if you wish it to remain a secret. I had no idea that you actually sold your turnings.” “You don’t blame me, surely?” he said. “Certainly not,” I answered. It seems, however, ludicrous that this multi-millionaire, with his great houses in New York and Pittsburg, his shooting-box in Scotland, his yacht, acknowledged to be one of the finest afloat, and his villa on the Riviera, should toil at turning in order to earn a pound or two a week as pocket-money. “When I worked as a turner in England in the old days I earned sixteen shillings a week making butter and bread plates, wooden bowls, salad spoons, and such like, and I earn about the same to-day when I’ve paid for the ivory and the necessary things for the ‘shop,’” he explained. Then he added: “You seem to think it strange, Miss Rosselli. If you place yourself for a moment in my position--that of a man without further aim or ambition--you will not be surprised that I have, after the lapse of nearly forty years, returned to the old trade to which I served my apprenticeship.” “I quite understand,” I responded, “and I only admire you that you do not, like so many other rich men, lead a life of easy indolence.” “I can’t do that,” he said. “It isn’t in me to be still. I must be at work, or I’m never happy. Only I have to be discreet for Gerald’s sake,” and the old millionaire smiled--rather sadly, I thought. CHAPTER VI PLACES ME IN A PREDICAMENT