“Pure?  More than pure!  Exhilarating, life-giving, delicious!  Under this system, Wally, the middle and upper classes will thrive as never before.  They’ll grow in size and weight, in health and intelligence, under the steady influence of ozone, day and night.  Every vital process will be stimulated.  Our invention will mark a new era in the welfare of the world!”

“Bunk!” sneered Wally.  “That’s all very well for your prospectuses and newspaper articles, old man, but the fact is we don’t give a damn whether it helps the world or wrecks it.  We’re out for money and power.  My motto is, Get ’em and do good, if you can—­but get ’em anyhow!  So you had better can the philanthropic part of it.  Just show me the cash, and you can have all the credit!”

Flint shot a grim look at his partner, then continued: 

“Don’t be flippant, Wally.  This is a serious business and must be treated as such.  In addition to the respiratory service, we can put in water-cooling and refrigerating services, at low cost, also cold-pipes for cooling houses in summer.  In fine, we can immeasurably add to the health and comfort of the better classes; and can at last have everybody using our gas, which, registering through our own sealed meters, will flood us with wealth so vast as to make that of these Standard Oil pifflers look like the proverbial thirty cents!”

“Fine!” exclaimed Waldron, nodding approval.  “Also, any time any rebellion develops we can merely shut off the supply in that quarter, and quickly reduce it.  Or, again, we can increase the potency of the gas, and fairly intoxicate the people, till they stand for anything.  Just fancy, now, our pipes connected with the sacred Halls of Congress and with the White House!  Even if any difficulty could possibly be expected from these sources, just imagine how quickly we could nip it in the bud!”

“Quickly isn’t the word, Wally,” answered the Billionaire.  “I tell you, old man, the world lies in our hands, today.  And we have only to close our fingers, in order to possess it!”

He glanced at his own fingers, as though he visibly perceived the great world lying there for him to squeeze.  Waldron’s eyes, following the Billionaire’s, saw that Flint’s hand was trembling, and understood the reason.  More than three hours had passed—­nay, almost four—­since Flint had had any opportunity to take his necessary dose of morphia.  Waldron arose, paced to the window and stood there looking out over the vast panorama of city, river and harbor, apparently absorbed in contemplation, but really keen to hear what Flint might do.

His expectations were not disappointed.  Hardly had he turned his back, when he heard the desk-drawer open, furtively, and knew the Billionaire was taking out the little vial of white tablets, dearer to him than ever the caress of woman to a Don Juan.  A moment later, the drawer closed again.

“He’ll do now, for a while,” thought Waldron, with satisfaction.  “Let him go the limit, if he likes—­the fool!  The more he takes, the quicker I win.  It’ll kill him yet, the dope will.  And that means, my mastery of the world will be complete.  Let him go it!  The harder, the better!”