“Our charter covers this new line of work.  There will be no need of any legal technicalities,” said Waldron, with a smile.  “Some charter, if I do say it, who shouldn’t.  I drew it, you remember.  Nothing much in the way of possible business-extension got past me!”

Flint nodded.

“You’re right,” he answered.  “Nothing stands in our way, now.  Positively nothing.  We have land, power and capital without limit.  We have the process.  We control press, law, courts, judges, military and every other form of government.  All we need look out for is to secure public confidence and keep the bandage on the eyes of the world till our system is actually in operation—­then there will be no redress, no come back, no possible rebellion.  As I’ve already said, Wally, we’ll have the whole world by the windpipe; and let the mob howl then, if they dare!”

“Yes, let ’em howl!” chimed in “Tiger,” with a snarl that proved his nickname no misnomer.  “Inside of a year we’ll have them all where we want them.  You were right, Flint, when you called oil, coal, iron and all the rest of it mere petty activities.  Air—­ah! that’s the talk!  Once we get the air under our control, we’re emperors of all life!”

His words rang frank and bold, but something in his look, as he blinked at his partner, might have given Flint cause for uneasiness, had the Billionaire noticed that oblique and dangerous glance.  One might have read therein some shifty and devious plan of Waldron’s to dominate even Flint himself, to rule the master or to wreck him, and to seize in his own hands the reins of universal power.  But Flint, bending over his note-book and making careful memoranda, saw nothing of all this.

Waldron, an inveterate smoker, lighted a fresh cigar, leaned back, surveyed his partner and indulged in a short inner laugh, which hardly curved his cruel lips, but which hardened still more those pale-blue, steely eyes of his.

“All right,” said he, at last.  “Enough of this, Flint.  Let’s get back to town, now, and have a conference with Henderson.  That’s the first step.  By tonight, the whole campaign of publicity must be mapped out.  Come, come; you can finish your memoranda later.  I’m impatient to be back in Wall Street.  Come along!”

Five minutes later, having left orders that Herzog was to attend upon them in their private offices, next morning, they had ordered the limousine and were making way along the hard road toward the gate of the enclosure.

The gate opened to let them pass, then swung and locked again, behind them.  At a good clip, the powerful car picked up speed on the homeward way.  The two magnates, exultant and flushed with the consciousness of coming victory, lolled in the deeply-cushioned seat and spoke of power.

As they swung past the aviation field and neared the Oakwood Heights station, a train pulled out.  Down the road came tramping a workingman in overalls and jumper, with a canvas bag of tools swinging from his brawny right hand.  As he walked, striding along with splendid energy, he whistled to himself—­no cheap ragtime air, but Handel’s Largo, with an appreciation which bespoke musical feeling of no common sort.