only the black wall, and the silence. Eldon Parr literally did nothing,
--made no gesture, uttered no cry. The death, they knew, was taking place
in his soul, yet the man stood before them, naturally, for what seemed an
interminable time . . . .

"Where is he?" he asked.

"At Mr. Bentley's, in Dalton Street." It was Alison who replied again.

Even then he gave no sign that he read retribution in the coincidence,
betrayed no agitation at the mention of a name which, in such a
connection, might well have struck the terror of judgment into his heart.
They watched him while, with a firm step, he crossed the room and pressed
a button in the wall, and waited.

"I want the closed automobile, at once," he said, when the servant came.

"I beg pardon; sir, but I think Gratton has gone to bed. He had no
orders."

"Then wake him," said Eldon Parr, "instantly. And send for my
secretary."

With a glance which he perceived Alison comprehended, Hodder made his way
out of the room. He had from Eldon Parr, as he passed him, neither
question, acknowledgment, nor recognition. Whatever the banker might
have felt, or whether his body had now become a mere machine mechanically
carrying on a life-long habit of action, the impression was one of the
tremendousness of the man's consistency. A great effort was demanded to
summon up the now almost unimaginable experience of his confidence; of