Mr. Robert van Rensselaer drove on to the depot, where stood his private
car; as he sped away to the city he first took something to drink, and
then sat smoking and meditating until the depot was reached. Here he
heard street voices: "Extra! Extra!" and bought a paper. He stepped into
his automobile, with the word "Home," and then settled back to read the
news. There was the whole scene of the conference, with the
embellishments of the usual kind, and the story of the strike
resolutions and the beginning of rioting. There were also some savage
editorials--it was a "yellow" journal. Mr. Robert van Rensselaer read
them and smiled.
He arrived at his residence,--which, it should be added, was no longer a
little apartment, but a palatial mansion just a few blocks above the
paternal one. As he was still meditating about the strike, it was with
a start that he came back to himself when the butler, who opened the
door for him, remarked:--
"I beg pardon, sir. There's a lady in the parlor to see you."
Mr. van Rensselaer opened his eyes. "A lady?" he said.
"A lady, I presume, sir," said the butler.
"What's her name?"
"She didn't give any name, sir. She just said she must see you; and she
would not take any refusal, sir."
"Humph!" said the other. "I'll go in."
And so in he went and gazed at the woman, who wore a heavy veil. She
rose up and flung it aside, disclosing a face ghastly white, and so like
a death's head that the other started back.
"Do you know me?" she asked.
"Er--no," said Mr. van Rensselaer.
"You really don't know me, Robbie?"