And as he trod, up and down, up and down the rich apartments, a slow, grim smile curved his mouth.
"What editor could withstand me, then ?" he was thinking.

"What clergyman could raise his voice against my rule?
Ah! Their 'high principles' they prate of so eloquently, their crack-brained economics, their rebellions and their strikes--the dogs!--would soon bow down before _that_ power! Men have starved for stiff-necked opposition's sake, and still may do so--but with my hand at the throat of the world, with the world's very life-breath in my grip, what then?
Submission, or--ha! well, we shall see, we shall see!" A subtle change came over his face, which had been growing paler for some minutes.

Impatiently he flung away his cigar, and, turning to his desk, opened a drawer, took out a little vial and uncorked it.

He shook out two small white tablets, on the big sheet of plate-glass that covered the desk, swallowed them eagerly, and replaced the vial in the desk again.

For be it known that, master of the world though Flint was, he too had a master--morphine.