The house of Stanley Hargreave, in Riverdale, was the house of no ordinary rich man. Outside it was simple enough, but within you learned what kind of a man Hargreave was. There were rare Ispahans and Saruks on the floors and tapestries on the walls, and here and there a fine painting. The library itself represented a fortune. Money had been laid out lavishly but never wastefully. It was the home of a scholar, a dreamer, a wide traveler.
In the library stood the master of the house, idly fingering some papers which lay on the study table. He shrugged at some unpleasant thought, settled his overcoat about his shoulders, took up his hat, and walked from the room, frowning slightly. The butler, who also acted in the capacity of valet and was always within call when his master was about, stepped swiftly to the hall door and opened it.
"I may be out late, Jones," said Hargreave.
"Yes, sir."
Hargreave stared into his face keenly, as if trying to pierce the grave face to learn what was going on behind it. "How long have you been with me?"
"Fourteen years, sir."
"Some day I shall need you."
"My life has always been at your disposal, sir, since that night you rescued me."
"Well, I haven't the least doubt that when I ask you will give."
"Without question, sir. It was always so understood."