Flint, however, had no eyes for this scene which would have gladdened a voluptuary’s heart—­and which, for that reason was dear to Waldron—­but walked toward the huge, four-posted bed where Wally himself, now rather paler than usual, with bloodshot eyes, was lying.  This bed, despite the fact that it had been transported all the way from Tours, France, and that it once had belonged to an archbishop, had only too often witnessed its owner’s insomnia.

“Hm!  You’re a devil of a man to keep an appointment, aren’t you?” Flint sneered at the master of the house.  “Eleven o’clock, and not up, yet!”

“Pardon me for remarking, my dear Flint,” replied Waldron, stretching himself between the silken sheets and reaching for a cigarette, “that the appointment was not of my making.  Also that I was up, last night—­this morning, rather—­till three-thirty.  And in the next place, that scoundrel Hazeltine, trimmed me out of eighty-six thousand in four hours—­”

“Roulette again, you idiot?” demanded Flint.

“And in conclusion,” said Wally, “that the bigness of my head and the brown taste in my mouth are such as no ’soda and sermons, the morning after’ can possibly alleviate.  So you understand my dalliance.

“Damn those workmen!” he exclaimed, with sudden irritation, as a louder chattering of pneumatic riveters from the new building all at once clattered in at the window.  “A free country, eh?  And men are permitted to make that kind of a racket when a fellow wants to sleep!  By God, if I—­”

“Drop that, Wally, and get up!” commanded Flint.  “There’s no time for this kind of thing today.  Herzog has just informed me his experiments have brought results.  We’re going down to Oakwood Heights to sea a few things for ourselves.  And the quicker you get dressed and in your right mind, the better.  Come along, I tell you!”

“Still chasing sunbeams from cucumbers, eh?” drawled the magnate, inhaling cigarette smoke and blowing a thin cloud toward the wanton Bacchantes.  He affected indifference, but his dull eyes brightened a trifle in his wan face, deep-lined by the savage dissipations of the previous night.  “And you insist on dragging me out on the same fatuous errand?”

“Don’t be an ass!” snapped the Billionaire.  “Get up and come along.  The sooner we have this thing under way, the better.”

“All right, anything to oblige,” conceded Waldron, inwardly stirred by an interest he took good care not to divulge in word or look.  “Give me just time for a cold plunge, a few minutes with my masseur and my barber, a bite to eat and—­”

Flint laid hold on his partner and shook him roughly.

“Move, you sluggard!” he commanded.  And Tiger Waldron obeyed.

Forty-five minutes later, the two financiers were speeding down the asphalt of the avenue at a good round clip.  Flint’s gleaming car formed one unit of the never-ending procession of motors which, day and night, year in and year out, spin unceasingly along the great, hard, splendid, cruel thoroughfare.