Roberts and the other directors, the procession being brought up
by the dapper little secretary bearing the minutes.

The long room with its narrow centre table covered with green
baize was filled with directors scattered in little groups and all
talking at once with excited gesture. At the sight of Ryder the
chattering stopped as if by common consent, and the only sound
audible was of the shuffling of feet and the moving of chairs as
the directors took their places around the long table.

With a nod here and there Ryder took his place in the chairman's
seat and rapped for order. Then at a sign from the chair the
dapper little secretary began in a monotonous voice to read the
minutes of the previous meeting. No one listened, a few directors
yawned. Others had their eyes riveted on Ryder's face, trying to
read there if he had devised some plan to offset the crushing blow
of this adverse decision, which meant a serious loss to them all.
He, the master mind, had served them in many a like crisis in the
past. Could he do so again? But John Ryder gave no sign. His eyes,
still of the same restful blue, were fixed on the ceiling watching
a spider marching with diabolical intent on a wretched fly that
had become entangled in its web. And as the secretary ambled
monotonously on, Ryder watched and watched until he saw the spider
seize its helpless prey and devour it. Fascinated by the
spectacle, which doubtless suggested to him some analogy to his
own methods, Ryder sat motionless, his eyes fastened on the
ceiling, until the sudden stopping of the secretary's reading
aroused him and told him that the minutes were finished. Quickly
they were approved, and the chairman proceeded as rapidly as
possible with the regular business routine. That disposed of, the