“See here, you!” he exclaimed.  “This certainly means another uprising.  It can’t mean anything else!  And you’ve allowed it, you hear?  No, no, don’t deny the fact!” he cried, as the detective tried to oppose a word of self-defense.  “It’s your fault, at last analysis; and if anything happens, you and the President, Supple, have got to answer to me, personally, do you hear?  You’ve got to pay!”

“Pay, and with devilish big interest, too!” growled “Tiger,” fixing his bleared, savage eyes on Slade.

“What did I make that man President for, anyhow?” snarled Flint, “if not to do my bidding and keep things still?  Why did I put you in as his private secretary, if not to have you watch him and see that he did do my bidding?  Why did I have Congress pass all those bills and things, except to give you the weapons and tools to hold the lid on?

“You’ve had a huge army and a conscripted militia given you; and hundreds of wireless plants, and military roads and war-equipment beyond all calculating.  You’ve had thousands of spies organized and put under your control.  At your suggestion I’ve had all political power taken away from the dogs—­and everything done that you’ve asked for—­and this, this is the kind of work you do!”

Livid with rage, the old Billionaire stood there shaking by his desk, his face a fearful mask of passions and evil lusts for vengeance and power.  Slade, recognizing his master, even as President Supple on more than one occasion had been forced in terrible personal interviews to recognize him, said no word; but in the secret-service man’s eyes a brutal gleam flashed its message of hate and loathing.  Foul as Slade was, he balked at times, in face of this man’s cruel and naked savagery.

“I tell you,” continued Flint, now having recovered his breath, “I tell you, you’re worse than useless, you and your President, ha! ha!—­President Puppet, indeed!  Take that great Smoky Mountain clue, for instance!  On the rumor that the ring-leaders of the swine were up there, somewhere, in the North Carolina mountains, you sent your two best men.  And what’s the latest news?  What have you to tell me? You know!  Other airmen of yours have just reported that nothing can be found but ruins of the Socialist refuge, there—­nothing but those, and the half-melted vanadium steel identification-tags of your best scouts! And their machine is gone—­and with it, the birds we wanted!  Then, close on the heels of this, all wires go flat, all wireless breaks down, all rails are interrupted, and—­and Hell’s to pay!” Fair in Slade’s face he shook his trembling first.

“Urrh!  You devilish, impotent faker!  You four-flusher!  You toy detective!  You and your President, too, aren’t worth the liquid oxygen to blow you to Hades!  See here, Slade, you get out on this job, now, and do it damned quick, you understand, or there’ll be some shake-up in your office and in the White House, too.  When I buy and pay for tools, I insist that the tools work.  If they don’t—!”