I only want a few minutes' quiet chat. I fancy I can settle my
business in that time.'

With a gesture Mr Babylon invited the millionaire down a side
corridor, at the end of which was Mr Babylon's private room, a
miracle of Louis XV furniture and tapestry: like most unmarried
men with large incomes, Mr Babylon had 'tastes' of a highly
expensive sort.

The landlord and his guest sat down opposite each other. Theodore
Racksole had met with the usual millionaire's luck in this
adventure, for Mr Babylon made a practice of not allowing himself
to be interviewed by his guests, however distinguished, however
wealthy, however pertinacious. If he had not chanced to enter Miss
Spencer's office at that precise moment, and if he had not been
impressed in a somewhat peculiar way by the physiognomy of the
millionaire, not all Mr Racksole's American energy and ingenuity
would have availed for a confabulation with the owner of the
Grand Babylon Hotel that night. Theodore Racksole, however, was
ignorant that a mere accident had served him. He took all the
credit to himself.

'I read in the New York papers some months ago,' Theodore
started, without even a clearing of the throat, 'that this hotel of
yours, Mr Babylon, was to be sold to a limited company, but it
appears that the sale was not carried out.'

'It was not,' answered Mr Babylon frankly, 'and the reason was that
the middle-men between the proposed company and myself wished