The cool, machine-like man went away. The millionaire knew that his fortune was tottering, but it moved him little. He knew that his power in the country was nearly over, had dwindled to nothing in the stir of greater things around. Money was only useful as a means of power, and with a sure prescience he saw that he would never regain his old position. The hour was over. Whatever would be the outcome of these great affairs, the hour was past and over. The one glowing thought which burned within him, and seemed to be eating out his life, was the awful knowledge that he and no other man had set in motion this terrible machinery which was grinding up the civilised world. Day and night from that there was no relief. His valet again entered and reminded his master that some people were coming to lunch. He went away and began to dress with the man's help. The guests were only two in number. One was Ommaney, the editor of the _Daily Wire_, the other Mrs. Hubert Armstrong. Both the lady and gentleman came in together at about two o'clock. Mrs. Armstrong was much changed in appearance. Her face had lost its serenity; her manner was quick and anxious; her voice strained. The slim, quiet editor, on the other hand, seemed to be untouched by worry. Quiet and inscrutable as ever, the only change in him, perhaps, was a slight briskness, an aroma rather than an actual expression of good humour and _bien-être_. They sat down to the meal. Schuabe, in his dark grey frock-coat, the careful _ensemble_ of his dress no less than the regular beauty of his face--now smooth and calm--seemed to be beyond all mundane cares. Only the lady was ill at ease. The conversation at first was all of the actual news of the day, as it had appeared in the morning's newspapers. Hands's death was discussed. "Poor fellow!" said Mrs. Armstrong, with a sigh; "it is sad to think of his sudden ending. The burden was too much for him to bear. I can understand it when I look round upon all that is happening; it is terrible!" "Surely you do not regret the discovery of the truth?" said Schuabe, quickly. "I am beginning to fear truth," said the lady. "The world, it seems, was not ripe for it. In a hundred years, perhaps, our work would have paved the way. But it is premature. Look at the chaos all around us. The public has ceased to think or read. They are reading nothing. Three publishers have put up the shutters during the week." The journalist interrupted with a dry chuckle. "They are reading the _Daily Wire_," he said; "the circulation is almost doubled." He sent a congratulatory glance to Schuabe. The millionaire's great holding in the paper was a secret known only to a few. In the stress of greater affairs he had half forgotten it. A swift feeling of relief crossed his brain as he realised what this meant to his tottering fortunes.