To his office on the twentieth floor of a Wall Street skyscraper—that office with the mahogany table at its center and the engraving of George Washington between two windows—the master came at his usual time on the morning of the day following the North Bridge wreck. He was dressed neatly, as always, in a suit of russet brown. Breathing visibly, but noiselessly, he passed the resting ticker and walked to one of the windows overlooking the labyrinth. His near-sighted, beady eyes peered toward the web of streets below, on the cross-threads of which the black dots that were hurrying men and women bobbed like struggling flies. The master rang for his secretary. "Rollins," he said, "what’s in the——" He stopped. He had not looked up, yet he asked: "What’s the matter with you this morning?" "Nothing," said Rollins. "I——" He coughed behind his hand. "I didn’t sleep well last night." "Take more exercise," said his master. "What’s in the mail?" "Thirty letters that need your personal attention, sir." Nimbly the master ran them through his short and stumpy fingers, the tips of which were delicately rounded. He dictated his terse instructions. With the daily routine again in motion, Rollins recaught his employer’s calm. "Simpson has the begging letters?" "Yes, sir." "I guess," said the master in his most commonplace tone, "there were more than the usual number of anonymous threats." "Only ten or twelve more." "Burn them." "Yes, sir. I always do." "And, Rollins, draw up a letter to the cancer hospital and tell the management I have decided to give them a special ward for fibroid tumor cases. Their lawyers may consult with Judge Stein; I gave him the details last evening. Bring me the letter for revision." "Yes, sir." The master proceeded through his customary schedule. "Rollins," he said, when it was at last completed and the secretary had been recalled. "Mr. Hallett and Mr. Rivington will be here"—he consulted his watch—"in five minutes. We are on no account to be disturbed." Hallett and Rivington came in, five minutes later. Hallett looked angry, and Rivington frightened. Though the hour was early, Hallett’s white waistcoat, fresh every morning, showed wrinkles, and its wearer chewed hard at an unlighted cigar; there was a deep perpendicular line over his short, thick nose. Rivington, immaculate, pulled at his slightly gray mustache. "Good-morning," said their host. His voice was as nearly cheerful as it was ever. "Sit down." They took their places at the table, where there was a pad of scribbling paper and a freshly sharpened pencil before each. Their host sat at the head of the table, his hands flat upon the table-top, their fingers extended, his elbows pointing ceilingward. Rivington began at the midst of what worried him. "It’s a terrible thing!" he groaned. "Think of it; twenty-five people—and the women too!" Hallett’s comment was almost a bark.