The cool, machine-like man went away. The millionaire knew that his fortune was tottering, but it moved him little. He knew that his power in the country was nearly over, had dwindled to nothing in the stir of greater things around. Money was only useful as a means of power, and with a sure prescience he saw that he would never regain his old position.
The hour was over.
Whatever would be the outcome of these great affairs, the hour was past and over.
The one glowing thought which burned within him, and seemed to be eating out his life, was the awful knowledge that he and no other man had set in motion this terrible machinery which was grinding up the civilised world.
Day and night from that there was no relief.
His valet again entered and reminded his master that some people were coming to lunch. He went away and began to dress with the man's help.
The guests were only two in number. One was Ommaney, the editor of the Daily Wire, the other Mrs. Hubert Armstrong.
Both the lady and gentleman came in together at about two o'clock.
Mrs. Armstrong was much changed in appearance. Her face had lost its serenity; her manner was quick and anxious; her voice strained.
The slim, quiet editor, on the other hand, seemed to be untouched by worry. Quiet and inscrutable as ever, the only change in him, perhaps, was a slight briskness, an aroma rather than an actual expression of good humour and bien-être.