Mr. Ryder remained at his desk and did not even look up when his
visitor entered. He pretended to be busily preoccupied with his
papers, which was a favourite pose of his when receiving
strangers. This frigid reception invariably served its purpose,
for it led visitors not to expect more than they got, which
usually was little enough. For several minutes Shirley stood
still, not knowing whether to advance or to take a seat. She gave
a little conventional cough, and Ryder looked up. What he saw so
astonished him that he at once took from his mouth the cigar he
was smoking and rose from his seat. He had expected a gaunt old
maid with spectacles, and here was a stylish, good-looking young
woman, who could not possibly be over twenty-five. There was
surely some mistake. This slip of a girl could not have written
"The American Octopus." He advanced to greet Shirley.
"You wish to see me, Madame?" he asked courteously. There were
times when even John Burkett Ryder could be polite.
"Yes," replied Shirley, her voice trembling a little; in spite of
her efforts to keep cool. "I am here by appointment. Three
o'clock, Mrs. Ryder's note said. I am Miss Green."
"_You_--Miss Green?" echoed the financier dubiously.
"Yes, I am Miss Green--Shirley Green, author of 'The American
Octopus.' You asked me to call. Here I am."
For the first time in his life, John Ryder was nonplussed. He
coughed and stammered and looked round for a place where he could
throw his cigar. Shirley, who enjoyed his embarrassment, put him
at his ease.
"Oh, please go on smoking," she said; "I don't mind it in the
least."
Ryder threw the cigar into a receptacle and looked closely at his
visitor.
"So you are Shirley Green, eh?"
"That is my _nom-de-plume_--yes," replied the girl nervously. She
was already wishing herself back at Massapequa. The financier eyed
her for a moment in silence as if trying to gauge the strength of
the personality of this audacious young woman, who had dared to
criticise his business methods in public print; then, waving her
to a seat near his desk, he said:
"Won't you sit down?"
"Thank you," murmured Shirley. She sat down, and he took his seat
at the other side of the desk, which brought them face to face.
Again inspecting the girl with a close scrutiny that made her
cheeks burn, Ryder said:
"I rather expected--" He stopped for a moment as if uncertain what
to say, then he added: "You're younger than I thought you were,
Miss Green, much younger."
"Time will remedy that," smiled Shirley. Then, mischievously, she
added: "I rather expected to see Mrs. Ryder."
There was the faintest suspicion of a smile playing around the
corners of the plutocrat's mouth as he picked up a book lying on
his desk and replied:
"Yes--she wrote you, but I--wanted to see you about this."
Shirley's pulse throbbed faster, but she tried hard to appear
unconcerned as she answered:
"Oh, my book--have you read it?"
"I have," replied Ryder slowly and, fixing her with a stare that
was beginning to make her uncomfortable, he went on: "No doubt
your time is valuable, so I'll come right to the point. I want to
ask you, Miss Green, where you got the character of your central
figure--the Octopus, as you call him--John Broderick?"
"From imagination--of course," answered Shirley.
Ryder opened the book, and Shirley noticed that there were several
passages marked. He turned the leaves over in silence for a minute
or two and then he said:
"You've sketched a pretty big man here--"
"Yes," assented Shirley, "he has big possibilities, but I think he
makes very small use of them."
Ryder appeared not to notice her commentary, and, still reading
the book, he continued:
"On page 22 you call him '_the world's greatest individualized
potentiality, a giant combination of materiality, mentality and
money--the greatest exemplar of individual human will in existence
to-day._' And you make indomitable will and energy the keystone of
his marvellous success. Am I right?" He looked at her questioningly.
"Quite right," answered Shirley.
Ryder proceeded:
"On page 26 you say '_the machinery of his money-making mind
typifies the laws of perpetual unrest. It must go on, relentlessly,
resistlessly, ruthlessly making money--making money and continuing
to make money. It cannot stop until the machinery crumbles._'"
Laying the book down and turning sharply on Shirley, he asked her
bluntly:
"Do you mean to say that I couldn't stop to-morrow if I wanted
to?"
She affected to not understand him.
"_You?_" she inquired in a tone of surprise.
"Well--it's a natural question," stammered Ryder, with a nervous
little laugh; "every man sees himself in the hero of a novel just
as every woman sees herself in the heroine. We're all heroes and
heroines in our own eyes. But tell me what's your private opinion
of this man. You drew the character. What do you think of him as a
type, how would you classify him?"
"As the greatest criminal the world has yet produced," replied
Shirley without a moment's hesitation.
The financier looked at the girl in unfeigned astonishment.
"Criminal?" he echoed.
"Yes, criminal," repeated Shirley decisively. "He is avarice,
egotism, and ambition incarnate. He loves money because he loves
power, and he loves power more than his fellow man."
Ryder laughed uneasily. Decidedly, this girl had opinions of her
own which she was not backward to express.
"Isn't that rather strong?" he asked.
"I don't think so," replied Shirley. Then quickly she asked: "But
what does it matter? No such man exists."
"No, of course not," said Ryder, and he relapsed into silence.
Yet while he said nothing, the plutocrat was watching his visitor
closely from under his thick eyebrows. She seemed supremely
unconscious of his scrutiny. Her aristocratic, thoughtful face
gave no sign that any ulterior motive had actuated her evidently
very hostile attitude against him. That he was in her mind when
she drew the character of John Broderick there was no doubt
possible. No matter how she might evade the identification, he was
convinced he was the hero of her book. Why had she attacked him so
bitterly? At first, it occurred to him that blackmail might be her
object; she might be going to ask for money as the price of future
silence. Yet it needed but a glance at her refined and modest
demeanour to dispel that idea as absurd. Then he remembered, too,
that it was not she who had sought this interview, but himself.
No, she was no blackmailer. More probably she was a dreamer--one
of those meddling sociologists who, under pretence of bettering
the conditions of the working classes, stir up discontent and
bitterness of feeling. As such; she might prove more to be feared
than a mere blackmailer whom he could buy off with money. He knew
he was not popular, but he was no worse than the other captains of
industry. It was a cut-throat game at best. Competition was the
soul of commercial life, and if he had outwitted his competitors
and made himself richer than all of them, he was not a criminal
for that. But all these attacks in newspapers and books did not do
him any good. One day the people might take these demagogic
writings seriously and then there would be the devil to pay. He
took up the book again and ran over the pages. This certainly was
no ordinary girl. She knew more and had a more direct way of
saying things than any woman he had ever met. And as he watched
her furtively across the desk he wondered how he could use her;
how instead of being his enemy, he could make her his friend. If
he did not, she would go away and write more such books, and
literature of this kind might become a real peril to his
interests. Money could do anything; it could secure the services
of this woman and prevent her doing further mischief. But how
could he employ her? Suddenly an inspiration came to him. For some
years he had been collecting material for a history of the Empire
Trading Company. She could write it. It would practically be his
own biography. Would she undertake it?
Embarrassed by the long silence, Shirley finally broke it by
saying:
"But you didn't ask me to call merely to find out what I thought
of my own work."
"No," replied Ryder slowly, "I want you to do some work for me."
He opened a drawer at the left-hand side of his desk and took out
several sheets of foolscap and a number of letters. Shirley's
heart beat faster as she caught sight of the letters. Were her
father's among them? She wondered what kind of work John Burkett
Ryder had for her to do and if she would do it whatever it was.
Some literary work probably, compiling or something of that kind.
If it was well paid, why should she not accept? There would be
nothing humiliating in it; it would not tie her hands in any way.
She was a professional writer in the market to be employed by
whoever could pay the price. Besides, such work might give her
better opportunities to secure the letters of which she was in
search. Gathering in one pile all the papers he had removed from
the drawer, Mr. Ryder said:
"I want you to put my biography together from this material. But
first," he added, taking up "The American Octopus," "I want to
know where you got the details of this man's life."
"Oh, for the most part--imagination, newspapers, magazines,"
replied Shirley carelessly. "You know the American millionaire is
a very overworked topic just now--and naturally I've read--"
"Yes, I understand," he said, "but I refer to what you haven't
read--what you couldn't have read. For example, here." He turned
to a page marked in the book and read aloud: "_As an evidence of
his petty vanity, when a youth he had a beautiful Indian girl
tattooed just above the forearm._" Ryder leaned eagerly forward as
he asked her searchingly: "Now who told you that I had my arm
tattooed when I was a boy?"
"Have you?" laughed Shirley nervously. "What a curious
coincidence!"
"Let me read you another coincidence," said Ryder meaningly. He
turned to another part of the book and read: "_the same eternal
long black cigar always between his lips_ ..."
"General Grant smoked, too," interrupted Shirley. "All men who
think deeply along material lines seem to smoke."
"Well, we'll let that go. But how about this?" He turned back a
few pages and read: "_John Broderick had loved, when a young man,
a girl who lived in Vermont, but circumstances separated them._"
He stopped and stared at Shirley a moment and then he said: "I
loved a girl when I was a lad and she came from Vermont, and
circumstances separated us. That isn't coincidence, for presently
you make John Broderick marry a young woman who had money. I
married a girl with money."
"Lots of men marry for money," remarked Shirley.
"I said _with_ money, not for money," retorted Ryder. Then turning
again to the book, he said: "Now, this is what I can't understand,
for no one could have told you this but I myself. Listen." He read
aloud: "_With all his physical bravery and personal courage, John
Broderick was intensely afraid of death. It was on his mind
constantly._" "Who told you that?" he demanded somewhat roughly.
"I swear I've never mentioned it to a living soul."
"Most men who amass money are afraid of death," replied Shirley
with outward composure, "for death is about the only thing that
can separate them from their money."
Ryder laughed, but it was a hollow, mocking laugh, neither sincere
nor hearty. It was a laugh such as the devil may have given when
driven out of heaven.
"You're quite a character!" He laughed again, and Shirley,
catching the infection, laughed, too.
"It's me and it isn't me," went on Ryder flourishing the book.
"This fellow Broderick is all right; he's successful and he's
great, but I don't like his finish."
"It's logical," ventured Shirley.
"It's cruel," insisted Ryder.
"So is the man who reverses the divine law and hates his neighbour
instead of loving him," retorted Shirley.
She spoke more boldly, beginning to feel more sure of her ground,
and it amused her to fence in this way with the man of millions.
So far, she thought, he had not got the best of her. She was fast
becoming used to him, and her first feeling of intimidation was
passing away.
"Um!" grunted Ryder, "you're a curious girl; upon my word you
interest me!" He took the mass of papers lying at his elbow and
pushed them over to her. "Here," he said, "I want you to make as
clever a book out of this chaos as you did out of your own
imagination."
Shirley turned the papers over carelessly.
"So you think your life is a good example to follow?" she asked
with a tinge of irony.
"Isn't it?" he demanded.
The girl looked him square in the face.
"Suppose," she said, "we all wanted to follow it, suppose we all
wanted to be the richest, the most powerful personage in the
world?"
"Well--what then?" he demanded.
"I think it would postpone the era of the Brotherhood of man
indefinitely, don't you?"
"I never thought of it from that point of view," admitted the
billionaire. "Really," he added, "you're an extraordinary girl.
Why, you can't be more than twenty--or so."
"I'm twenty-four--or so," smiled Shirley.
Ryder's face expanded in a broad smile. He admired this girl's
pluck and ready wit. He grew more amiable and tried to gain her
confidence. In a coaxing tone he said:
"Come, where did you get those details? Take me into your
confidence."
"I have taken you into my confidence," laughed Shirley, pointing
at her book. "It cost you $1.50!" Turning over the papers he had
put before her she said presently: "I don't know about this."
"You don't think my life would make good reading?" he asked with
some asperity.
"It might," she replied slowly, as if unwilling to commit herself
as to its commercial or literary value. Then she said frankly: "To
tell you the honest truth, I don't consider mere genius in
money-making is sufficient provocation for rushing into print. You
see, unless you come to a bad end, it would have no moral."
Ignoring the not very flattering insinuation contained in this
last speech, the plutocrat continued to urge her:
"You can name your own price if you will do the work," he said.
"Two, three or even five thousand dollars. It's only a few months'
work."
"Five thousand dollars?" echoed Shirley. "That's a lot of money."
Smiling, she added: "It appeals to my commercial sense. But I'm
afraid the subject does not arouse my enthusiasm from an artistic
standpoint."
Ryder seemed amused at the idea of any one hesitating to make five
thousand dollars. He knew that writers do not run across such
opportunities every day.
"Upon my word," he said, "I don't know why I'm so anxious to get
you to do the work. I suppose it's because you don't want to. You
remind me of my son. Ah, he's a problem!"
Shirley started involuntarily when Ryder mentioned his son. But he
did not notice it.
"Why, is he wild?" she asked, as if only mildly interested.
"Oh, no, I wish he were," said Ryder.
"Fallen in love with the wrong woman, I suppose," she said.
"Something of the sort--how did you guess?" asked Ryder surprised.
Shirley coughed to hide her embarrassment and replied
indifferently.
"So many boys do that. Besides," she added with a mischievous
twinkle in her eyes, "I can hardly imagine that any woman would be
the right one unless you selected her yourself!"
Ryder made no answer. He folded his arms and gazed at her. Who was
this woman who knew him so well, who could read his inmost
thoughts, who never made a mistake? After a silence he said:
"Do you know you say the strangest things?"
"Truth is strange," replied Shirley carelessly. "I don't suppose
you hear it very often."
"Not in that form," admitted Ryder.
Shirley had taken on to her lap some of the letters he had passed
her, and was perusing them one after another.
"All these letters from Washington consulting you on politics and
finance--they won't interest the world."
"My secretary picked them out," explained Ryder. "Your artistic
sense will tell you what to use."
"Does your son still love this girl? I mean the one you object
to?" inquired Shirley as she went on sorting the papers.
"Oh, no, he does not care for her any more," answered Ryder
hastily.
"Yes, he does; he still loves her," said Shirley positively.
"How do _you_ know?" asked Ryder amazed.
"From the way you say he doesn't," retorted Shirley.
Ryder gave his caller a look in which admiration was mingled with
astonishment.
"You are right again," he said. "The idiot does love the girl."
"Bless his heart," said Shirley to herself. Aloud she said:
"I hope they'll both outwit you."
Ryder laughed in spite of himself. This young woman certainly
interested him more than any other he had ever known.
"I don't think I ever met anyone in my life quite like you," he
said.
"What's the objection to the girl?" demanded Shirley.
"Every objection. I don't want her in my family."
"Anything against her character?"
To better conceal the keen interest she took in the personal turn
the conversation had taken, Shirley pretended to be more busy than
ever with the papers.
"Yes--that is no--not that I know of," replied Ryder. "But because
a woman has a good character, that doesn't necessarily make her a
desirable match, does it?"
"It's a point in her favor, isn't it?"
"Yes--but--" He hesitated as if uncertain what to say.
"You know men well, don't you, Mr. Ryder?"
"I've met enough to know them pretty well," he replied.
"Why don't you study women for a change?" she asked. "That would
enable you to understand a great many things that I don't think
are quite clear to you now."
Ryder laughed good humouredly. It was decidedly a novel sensation
to have someone lecturing him.
"I'm studying you," he said, "but I don't seem to make much
headway. A woman like you whose mind isn't spoiled by the
amusement habit has great possibilities--great possibilities. Do
you know you're the first woman I ever took into my confidence--I
mean at sight?" Again he fixed her with that keen glance which in
his business life had taught him how to read men. He continued:
"I'm acting on sentiment--something I rarely do, but I can't help
it. I like you, upon my soul I do, and I'm going to introduce you
to my wife--my son--"
He took the telephone from his desk as if he were going to use it.
"What a commander-in-chief you would have made--how natural it is
for you to command," exclaimed Shirley in a burst of admiration
that was half real, half mocking. "I suppose you always tell
people what they are to do and how they are to do it. You are a
born general. You know I've often thought that Napoleon and Caesar
and Alexander must have been great domestic leaders as well as
imperial rulers. I'm sure of it now."
Ryder listened to her in amazement. He was not quite sure if she
were making fun of him or not.
"Well, of all--" he began. Then interrupting himself he said
amiably: "Won't you do me the honour to meet my family?"
Shirley smiled sweetly and bowed.
"Thank you, Mr. Ryder, I will."
She rose from her seat and leaned over the manuscripts to conceal
the satisfaction this promise of an introduction to the family
circle gave her. She was quick to see that it meant more visits to
the house, and other and perhaps better opportunities to find the
objects of her search. Ryder lifted the receiver of his telephone
and talked to his secretary in another room, while Shirley, who
was still standing, continued examining the papers and letters.
"Is that you, Bagley? What's that? General Dodge? Get rid of him.
I can't see him to-day. Tell him to come to-morrow. What's that?
My son wants to see me? Tell him to come to the phone."
At that instant Shirley gave a little cry, which in vain she tried
to suppress. Ryder looked up.
"What's the matter?" he demanded startled.
"Nothing--nothing!" she replied in a hoarse whisper. "I pricked
myself with a pin. Don't mind me."
She had just come across her father's missing letters, which had
got mixed up, evidently without Ryder's knowledge, in the mass of
papers he had handed her. Prepared as she was to find the letters
somewhere in the house, she never dreamed that fate would put them
so easily and so quickly into her hands; the suddenness of their
appearance and the sight of her father's familiar signature
affected her almost like a shock. Now she had them, she must not
let them go again; yet how could she keep them unobserved? Could
she conceal them? Would he miss them? She tried to slip them in
her bosom while Ryder was busy at the 'phone, but he suddenly
glanced in her direction and caught her eye. She still held the
letters in her hand, which shook from nervousness, but he noticed
nothing and went on speaking through the 'phone:
"Hallo, Jefferson, boy! You want to see me. Can you wait till I'm
through? I've got a lady here. Going away? Nonsense! Determined,
eh? Well, I can't keep you here if you've made up your mind. You
want to say good-bye. Come up in about five minutes and I'll
introduce you to a very interesting person,"
He laughed and hung up the receiver. Shirley was all unstrung,
trying to overcome the emotion which her discovery had caused her,
and in a strangely altered voice, the result of the nervous strain
she was under, she said:
"You want me to come here?"
She looked up from the letters she was reading across to Ryder,
who was standing watching her on the other side of the desk. He
caught her glance and, leaning over to take some manuscript, he
said:
"Yes, I don't want these papers to get--"
His eye suddenly rested on the letters she was holding. He stopped
short, and reaching forward he tried to snatch them from her.
"What have you got there?" he exclaimed.
He took the letters and she made no resistance. It would be folly
to force the issue now, she thought. Another opportunity would
present itself. Ryder locked the letters up very carefully in the
drawer on the left-hand side of his desk, muttering to himself
rather than speaking to Shirley:
"How on earth did they get among my other papers?"
"From Judge Rossmore, were they not?" said Shirley boldly.
"How did you know it was Judge Rossmore?" demanded Ryder
suspiciously. "I didn't know that his name had been mentioned."
"I saw his signature," she said simply. Then she added: "He's the
father of the girl you don't like, isn't he?"
"Yes, he's the--"
A cloud came over the financier's face; his eyes darkened, his
jaws snapped and he clenched his fist.
"How you must hate him!" said Shirley, who observed the change.
"Not at all," replied Ryder recovering his self-possession and
suavity of manner. "I disagree with his politics and his methods,
but--I know very little about him except that he is about to be
removed from office."
"About to be?" echoed Shirley. "So his fate is decided even before
he is tried?" The girl laughed bitterly. "Yes," she went on, "some
of the newspapers are beginning to think he is innocent of the
things of which he is accused."
"Do they?" said Ryder indifferently.
"Yes," she persisted, "most people are on his side."
She planted her elbows on the desk in front of her, and looking
him squarely in the face, she asked him point blank:
"Whose side are you on--really and truly?"
Ryder winced. What right had this woman, a stranger both to Judge
Rossmore and himself, to come here and catechise him? He
restrained his impatience with difficulty as he replied:
"Whose side am I on? Oh, I don't know that I am on any side. I
don't know that I give it much thought. I--"
"Do you think this man deserves to be punished?" she demanded.
She had resumed her seat at the desk and partly regained her
self-possession.
"Why do you ask? What is your interest in this matter?"
"I don't know," she replied evasively; "his case interests me,
that's all. Its rather romantic. Your son loves this man's
daughter. He is in disgrace--many seem to think unjustly." Her
voice trembled with emotion as she continued: "I have heard from
one source or another--you know I am acquainted with a number of
newspaper men--I have heard that life no longer has any interest
for him, that he is not only disgraced but beggared, that he is
pining away slowly, dying of a broken heart, that his wife and
daughter are in despair. Tell me, do you think he deserves such a
fate?"
Ryder remained thoughtful a moment, and then he replied:
"No, I do not--no--"
Thinking that she had touched his sympathies, Shirley followed up
her advantage:
"Oh, then, why not come to his rescue--you, who are so rich, so
powerful; you, who can move the scales of justice at your
will--save this man from humiliation and disgrace!"
Ryder shrugged his shoulders, and his face expressed weariness, as
if the subject had begun to bore him.
"My dear girl, you don't understand. His removal is necessary."
Shirley's face became set and hard. There was a contemptuous ring
to her words as she retorted:
"Yet you admit that he may be innocent!"
"Even if I knew it as a fact, I couldn't move."
"Do you mean to say that if you had positive proof?" She pointed
to the drawer in the desk where he had placed the letters. "If you
had absolute proof in that drawer, for instance? Wouldn't you help
him then?"
Ryder's face grew cold and inscrutable; he now wore his fighting
mask.
"Not even if I had the absolute proof in that drawer?" he snapped
viciously.
"Have you absolute proof in that drawer?" she demanded.
"I repeat that even if I had, I could not expose the men who have
been my friends. Its _noblesse oblige_ in politics as well as in
society, you know."
He smiled again at her, as if he had recovered his good humour
after their sharp passage at arms.
"Oh, it's politics--that's what the papers said. And you believe
him innocent. Well, you must have some grounds for your belief."
"Not necessarily--"
"You said that even if you had the proofs, you could not produce
them without sacrificing your friends, showing that your friends
are interested in having this man put off the bench--" She stopped
and burst into hysterical laughter. "Oh, I think you're having a
joke at my expense," she went on, "just to see how far you can
lead me. I daresay Judge Rossmore deserves all he gets. Oh,
yes--I'm sure he deserves it." She rose and walked to the other
side of the room to conceal her emotion.
Ryder watched her curiously.
"My dear young lady, how you take this matter to heart!"
"Please forgive me," laughed Shirley, and averting her face to
conceal the fact that her eyes were filled with tears. "It's my
artistic temperament, I suppose. It's always getting me into
trouble. It appealed so strongly to my sympathies--this story of
hopeless love between two young people--with the father of the
girl hounded by corrupt politicians and unscrupulous financiers.
It was too much for me. Ah! ah! I forgot where I was!"
She leaned against a chair, sick and faint from nervousness, her
whole body trembling. At that moment there was a knock at the
library door and Jefferson Ryder appeared. Not seeing Shirley,
whose back was towards him, he advanced to greet his father.
"You told me to come up in five minutes," he said. "I just wanted
to say--"
"Miss Green," said Ryder, Sr., addressing Shirley and ignoring
whatever it was that the young man wanted to say, "this is my son
Jefferson. Jeff--this is Miss Green."
Jefferson looked in the direction indicated and stood as if rooted
to the floor. He was so surprised that he was struck dumb.
Finally, recovering himself, he exclaimed:
"Shirley!"
"Yes, Shirley Green, the author," explained Ryder, Sr., not
noticing the note of familiar recognition in his exclamation.
Shirley advanced, and holding out her hand to Jefferson, said
demurely:
"I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Ryder." Then quickly, in an
undertone, she added: "Be careful; don't betray me!"
Jefferson was so astounded that he did not see the outstretched
hand. All he could do was to stand and stare first at her and then
at his father.
"Why don't you shake hands with her?" said Ryder, Sr. "She won't
bite you." Then he added: "Miss Green is going to do some literary
work for me, so we shall see a great deal of her. It's too bad
you're going away!" He chuckled at his own pleasantry.
"Father!" blurted out Jefferson, "I came to say that I've changed
my mind. You did not want me to go, and I feel I ought to do
something to please you."
"Good boy," said Ryder pleased. "Now you're talking common sense,"
He turned to Shirley, who was getting ready to make her departure:
"Well, Miss Green, we may consider the matter settled. You
undertake the work at the price I named and finish it as soon as
you can. Of course, you will have to consult me a good deal as you
go along, so I think it would be better for you to come and stay
here while the work is progressing. Mrs. Ryder can give you a
suite of rooms to yourself, where you will be undisturbed and you
will have all your material close at hand. What do you say?"
Shirley was silent for a moment. She looked first at Ryder and
then at his son, and from them her glance went to the little
drawer on the left-hand side of the desk. Then she said quietly:
"As you think best, Mr. Ryder. I am quite willing to do the work
here."
Ryder, Sr., escorted her to the top of the landing and watched her
as she passed down the grand staircase, ushered by the gorgeously
uniformed flunkies, to the front door and the street.