Hood bowed and went out. A few minutes later Reverend Darius Borwell was ushered into the financier’s private office.
“Mr. Ames,” cried that gentleman of the cloth, “it’s shocking, terribly so, what those unbridled, unprincipled mill hands have drawn upon themselves down in Avon! Goodness! And four members of the Church of the Social Revolution came to my study last evening and demanded that I let them speak to my congregation on the coming Sabbath!”
“Well?”
“Why, I told them certainly not! My church is God’s house! And I shall have policemen stationed at the doors next Sunday to maintain order! To think that it has come to this in America! But, Mr. Ames, is your house guarded? I would advise––”
“Nobody can get within a block of my house, sir, without ringing a series of electric bells,” replied Ames evenly. “I have fifty guards and private detectives in attendance in and about my premises all the time. My limousine has been lined with sheet steel. And my every step is protected. I am not afraid for my life. I simply want to keep going until I can carry out a few plans I have in hand.” His thought had reverted again to the fair girl in the Tombs.
“But now, Borwell,” he continued, “I want to talk with you about another matter. I am drawing up my will, and––”
“Why, my dear Mr. Ames! You are not ill?”
Ames thought of his physician’s constantly iterated warning; but shook his head. “I may get caught in this Avon affair,” he said evasively. “And I want to be prepared. The 223 President has sent his message to Congress, as you may be aware. There are unpleasant suggestions in it regarding dispossession in cases like my own. I’m coming back by magnanimously willing to Congress a hundred millions, to stand as a fund for social uplift.”
“Ah!” sighed the clergyman. Great was Mammon!
“But the little matter I wish to discuss with you is the sum that I am setting aside for the erection of a new church edifice,” continued Ames, eying the minister narrowly.