CHAPTER IX

Mr. Fentolin, surrounded by his satellites, was seated in his chair
before the writing-table. There were present in the room most of
the people important to him in his somewhat singular life. A few
feet away, in characteristic attitude, stood Meekins. Doctor Sarson,
with his hands behind him, was looking out of the window. At the
further end of the table stood a confidential telegraph clerk, who
was just departing with a little sheaf of messages. By his side,
with a notebook in her hand, stood Mr. Fentolin's private secretary
--a white-haired woman, with a strangely transparent skin and light
brown eyes, dressed in somber black, a woman who might have been
of any age from thirty to fifty. Behind her was a middle-aged man
whose position in the household no one was quite sure about--a
clean-shaven man whose name was Ryan, and who might very well have
been once an actor or a clergyman. In the background stood
Henderson, the perfect butler.

"It is perhaps opportune," Mr. Fentolin said quietly, "that you
all whom I trust should be present here together. I wish you to
understand one thing. You have, I believe, in my employ learned
the gift of silence. It is to be exercised with regard to a
certain visitor brought here by my nephew, a visitor whom I regret
to say is now lying seriously ill."

There was absolute silence. Doctor Sarson alone turned from the