It was only a year ago, on the occasion of the visit of young Viscount FitzThistle to the Mausoleum Club, that Mr.
Fyshe had introduced Mr.Boulder to the Viscount and had suffered grievously thereby.

For Mr.Boulder had no sooner met the Viscount than he invited him up to his hunting-lodge in Wisconsin, and that was the last thing known of the investment of the FitzThistle fortune.
This Mr.Boulder of whom Mr.Fyshe spoke might indeed have been seen at that moment at a further table of the lunch room eating a solitary meal, an oldish man with a great frame suggesting broken strength, with a white beard and with falling under-eyelids that made him look as if he were just about to cry.

His eyes were blue and far away, and his still, mournful face and his great bent shoulders seemed to suggest all the power and mystery of high finance.
Gloom indeed hung over him.

For, when one heard him talk of listed stocks and cumulative dividends, there was as deep a tone in his quiet voice as if he spoke of eternal punishment and the wages of sin.
Under his great hands a chattering viscount, or a sturdy duke, or a popinjay Italian marquis was as nothing.
Mr.Boulder's methods with titled visitors investing money in America were deep.

He never spoke to them of money, not a word.