The financier was thinking, but his thoughts concerned neither the luckless gas president he had just pitilessly crushed, nor the detective who had come to make his report.

He was thinking of the book "The American Octopus," and its bold author whom he was to meet in a very few minutes.

He glanced at the clock.

A quarter to three.

She would be here in fifteen minutes if she were punctual, but women seldom are, he reflected.