More than three hours had passed--nay, almost four--since Flint had had any opportunity to take his necessary dose of morphia.

Waldron arose, paced to the window and stood there looking out over the vast panorama of city, river and harbor, apparently absorbed in contemplation, but really keen to hear what Flint might do.
His expectations were not disappointed.

Hardly had he turned his back, when he heard the desk-drawer open, furtively, and knew the Billionaire was taking out the little vial of white tablets, dearer to him than ever the caress of woman to a Don Juan.

A moment later, the drawer closed again.
"He'll do now, for a while," thought Waldron, with satisfaction.

"Let him go the limit, if he likes--the fool! The more he takes, the quicker I win.