Dumont grew sickly yellow with the first glance at those head-lines.He had long been used to seeing extensive and highly unflattering accounts of himself and his doings in print; but theretofore every open attack had been on some public matter where a newspaper "pounding" might be attributed to politics or stock-jobbery.Here--it was a verbatim official report, and of a private scandal, more dangerous to his financial standing than the fiercest assault upon his honesty as a financier; for it tore away the foundation of reputation--private character.A faithful transcript throughout, it portrayed him as a bag of slimy gold and gilded slime.He hated his own face staring out at him from a three-column cut in the center of the first page--its heavy jaw, its cynical mouth, its impudent eyes."Do I look like THAT?" he thought.He was like one who, walking along the streets, catches sight of his own image in a show-window mirror and before he recognizes it, sees himself as others see him.He flushed to his temples at the contrast with the smaller cut beside it--the face of Pauline, high and fine icily beautiful as always in her New York days when her features were in repose.
Culver shifted from one weak leg to the other, and the movement reminded Dumont of his existence."That's all.Clear out!" he exclaimed, and fell back into his big chair and closed his eyes.
He thought he at last understood publicity.
But he was mistaken.
He finished dressing and choked down a little breakfast.As he advanced toward the front door the servant there coughed uneasily and said: "Beg pardon, sir, but I fear you won't be able to get out.""What's the matter?" he demanded, his brows contracting and his lips beginning to slide back in a snarl--it promised to be a sad morning for human curs of all kinds who did not scurry out of the lion's way.
"The crowd, sir," said the servant.And he drew aside the curtain across the glass in one of the inside pair of great double doors of the palace entrance."It's quite safe to look, sir.They can't see through the outside doors as far as this."Dumont peered through the bronze fretwork.A closely packed mass of people was choking the sidewalk and street--his brougham was like an island in a troubled lake.He saw several policemen--they were trying to move the crowd on, but not trying sincerely.He saw three huge cameras, their operators under the black cloths, their lenses pointed at the door--waiting for him to appear.For the first time in his life he completely lost his nerve.Not only publicity, the paper--a lifeless sheet of print;but also publicity, the public--with living eyes to peer and living voices to jeer.He looked helplessly, appealingly at the "cur" he had itched to kick the moment before.
"What the devil shall I do?" he asked in a voice without a trace of courage.
"I don't know, sir," replied the servant."The basement door wouldn't help very much, would it?"The basement door was in front also."Idiot! Is there no way out at the rear?" he asked.
"Only over the fences, sir," said the servant, perfectly matter-of-fact.Having no imagination, his mind made no picture of the great captain of industry scrambling over back fences like a stray cat flying from a brick.
Dumont turned back and into his first-floor sitting-room.He unlocked his stand of brandy bottles, poured out an enormous drink and gulped it down.His stomach reeled, then his head.He went to the window and looked out--there must have been five hundred people in the street, and vehicles were making their way slowly and with difficulty, drivers gaping at the house and joking with the crowd; newsboys, bent sidewise to balance their huge bundles of papers, were darting in and out, and even through the thick plate glass he could hear: "All about Millionaire Dumont's disgrace!"He went through to a rear window.No, there was a continuous wall, a high brick wall.A servant came and told him he was wanted at the telephone.It was Giddings, who said in a voice that was striving in vain to be calm against the pressure of some intense excitement: "You are coming down to-day, Mr.Dumont?""Why?" asked Dumont, snapping the word out as short and savage as the crack of a lash.
"There are disquieting rumors of a raid on us.""Who's to do the raiding?"
"They say it's Patterson and Fanning-Smith and Cassell and Herron.It's a raid for control."Dumont snorted scornfully."Don't fret.We're all right.I'll be down soon." And he hung up the receiver, muttering: "The ass! I must kick him out! He's an old woman the instant I turn my back."He had intended not to go down, but to shut himself in with the brandy bottle until nightfall.This news made his presence in the Street imperative."They couldn't have sprung at me at a worse time," he muttered."But I can take care of 'em!"He returned to the library, took another drink, larger than the first.His blood began to pound through his veins and to rush along under the surface of his skin like a sheet of fire.Waves of fury surged into his brain, making him dizzy, confusing his sight--he could scarcely refrain from grinding his teeth.He descended to the basement, his step unsteady.
"A ladder," he ordered in a thick voice.
He led the way to the rear wall.A dozen men-servants swarming about, tried to assist him.He ordered them aside and began to climb.As the upper part of his body rose above the wall-line he heard a triumphant shout, many voices crying: "There he is!
There he is!"
