“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.