"A millionaire with brains," he argued, "is just the one person
in the world likely to weary of all ordinary forms of diversion.
I begin to remember things about him already. Haven't you heard
about his wonderful parties down at The Walled House?"
Wilmore struck the table by his side with his clenched fist.
"By George, that's it!" he exclaimed. "Who hasn't!"
"I remember Baker talking about one last year," Francis
continued, "never any details, but all kinds of mysterious hints
--a sort of mixture between a Roman orgy and a chapter from the
'Arabian Nights'--singers from Petrograd, dancers from Africa and
fighting men from Chicago."
"The fellow's magnificent, at any rate," Wilmore remarked.
His host smoked furiously for a moment.
"That's the worst of these multi-millionaires," he declared.
"They think they can rule the world, traffic in human souls, buy
morals, mock at the law. We shall see!"
"Do you know the thing that I found most interesting about him?"
Wilmore asked.
"His black opals," the other suggested. "You're by the way of
being a collector, aren't you?"
Wilmore shook his head.
"The fact that he is the father of Oliver Hilditch's widow."
Francis sat quite still for a moment. There was a complete
change in his expression. He looked like a man who has received
a shock.
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