Thirty minutes later, Flint’s chauffeur opened the door of the big limousine, in front of the huge Renaissance pile that Waldron’s millions had raised on land which had cost him more than as though he had covered it with double eagles; and Flint himself ascended the steps of Pentelican marble.  The limousine, its varnish and silver-plate flashing in the bright spring sun, stood by the curb, purring softly to itself with all six cylinders, a thing of matchless beauty and rare cost.  The chauffeur, on the driver’s seat, did not even bother to shut off the gas, but let the engine run, regardless.  To have stopped it would have meant some trifling exertion, in starting again; and since Flint never considered such details as a few gallons of gasoline, why should he care?  Lighting a Turkish cigarette, this aristocrat of labor lolled on the padded leather and indifferently—­with more of contempt than of interest—­regarded a swarm of iron-workers, masons and laborers at work on a new building across the avenue.

Flint, meanwhile, had entered the great mansion, its bronze doors—­ravished from the Palazzo Guelfo at Venice—­having swung inward to admit him, with noiseless majesty.  Ignoring the doorman, he addressed himself to Edwards, who stood in the spacious, mahogany-panelled hall, washing both hands with imaginary soap.

“Waldron up, yet, Edwards?”

“No, sir.  He—­er—­I have been unable—­”

“The devil!  Where is he?”

“In his apartments, sir.”

“Take me up!”

“He said, sir,” ventured Edwards, in his smoothest voice.  “He said—­”

“I don’t give a damn what he said!  Take me up, at once!”

“Yes, sir.  Immediately, sir!” And he gestured suavely toward the elevator.

Flint strode down the hall, indifferent to the Kirmanshah rugs, the rare mosaic floor and stained-glass windows, the Parian fountain and the Azeglio tapestries that hung suspended up along the stairway—­all old stories to him and as commonplace as rickety odds and ends of furniture might be to any toiler “cribbed, cabin’d and confined” in fetid East Side tenement or squalid room on Hester Street.

The elevator boy bowed before his presence.  Edwards hesitated to enter the private elevator, with this world-master; but Flint beckoned him to come along.  And so, borne aloft by the smooth force of the electric motor, they presently reached the upper floor where “Tiger” Waldron laired in stately splendor, like the nabob that he was.

Without ceremony, Flint pushed forward into the bed-chamber of the mighty one—­a chamber richly finished in panels of the rare sea-grape tree, brought from Pacific isles at great cost of money and some expenditure of human lives; but this latter item was, of course, beneath consideration.

By the softened light which entered through rich curtains, one saw the famous frieze of De Lussac, that banded the apartment, over the panelling—­the frieze of Bacchantes, naked and unashamed, revelling with Satyrs in an abandon that bespoke the age when the world was young.  Their voluptuous forms entwined with clustering grapes and leaves, they poured tipsy libations of red wine from golden chalices; while old Silenus, god of drink, astride a donkey, applauded with maudlin joy.