and yet never once had we, his intimates, ever canvassed the idea. Rather had

we been prepared for it in some incomprehensible subconscious way. Before the
perpetration of the deed, its possibility is remotest from our thoughts; but

when we did know that he was dead, it seemed, somehow, that we had understood
and looked forward to it all the time. This, by retrospective analysis, we

could easily explain by the fact of his great trouble. I use "great trouble"
advisedly. Young, handsome, with an assured position as the right-hand man of

Eben Hale, the great street-railway magnate, there could be no reason for him
to complain of fortune's favors. Yet we had watched his smooth brow furrow and

corrugate as under some carking care or devouring sorrow. We had watched his
thick, black hair thin and silver as green grain under brazen skies and

parching drought. Who can forget, in the midst of the hilarious scenes he
toward the last sought with greater and greater avidity--who can forget, I

say, the deep abstractions and black moods into which he fell? At such times,
when the fun rippled and soared from height to height, suddenly, without rhyme

or reason, his eyes would turn lacklustre, his brows knit, as with clenched
hands and face overshot with spasms of mental pain he wrestled on the edge of

the abyss with some unknown danger.
He never spoke of his trouble, nor were we indiscreet enough to ask. But it

was just as well; for had we, and had he spoken, our help and strength could
have availed nothing. When Eben Hale died, whose confidential secretary he

was--nay, well-nigh adopted son and full business partner--he no longer came
among us. Not, as I now know, that our company was distasteful to him, but

because his trouble had so grown that he could not respond to our happiness
nor find surcease with us. Why this should be so we could not at the time

understand, for when Eben Hale's will was probated, the world learned that he
was sole heir to his employer's many millions, and it was expressly stipulated

that this great inheritance was given to him without qualification, hitch, or
hindrance in the exercise thereof. Not a share of stock, not a penny of cash,

was bequeathed to the dead man's relatives. As for his direct family, one
astounding clauseexpressly stated that Wade Atsheler was to dispense to Eben

Hale's wife and sons and daughters whatever moneys his judgementdictated, at
whatever times he deemed advisable. Had there been any scandal in the dead

man's family, or had his sons been wild or undutiful, then there might have
been a glimmering of reason in this most unusual action; but Eben Hale's

domestic happiness had been proverbial in the community, and one would have to
travel far and wide to discover a cleaner, saner, wholesomer progeny of sons

and daughters. While his wife--well, by those who knew her best she was
endearingly termed "The Mother of the Gracchi." Needless to state, this

inexplicable will was a nine day's wonder; but the expectant public was
disappointed in that no contest was made.

It was only the other day that Eben Hale was laid away in his stately marble
mausoleum. And now Wade Atsheler is dead. The news was printed in this

morning's paper. I have just received through the mail a Ietter from him,
posted, evidently, but a short hour before he hurled himself into eternity.

This letter, which lies before me, is a narrative in his own handwriting,
linking together numerous newspaper clippings and facsimiles of letters. The

original correspondence, he has told me, is in the hands of the police. He has
begged me, also, as a warning to society against a most frightful and

diabolical danger which threatens its very existence, to make public the
terrible series of tragedies in which he has been innocentlyconcerned. I

herewith append the text in full:
It was in August, 1899, just after my return from my summer vacation, that the

blow fell. We did not know it at the time; we had not yet learned to school
our minds to such awful possibilities. Mr. Hale opened the letter, read it,

and tossed it upon my desk with a laugh. When I had looked it over, I also
laughed, saying, "Some ghastly joke, Mr. Hale, and one in very poor taste."

Find here, my dear John, an exact duplicate of the letter in question.
OFFICE OF THE M. OF M. August 17, 1899.

MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron:
Dear Sir,--We desire you to realize upon whateverportion of your vast

holdings is necessary to obtain, IN CASH, twenty millions of dollars. This sum
we require you to pay over to us, or to our agents. You will note we do not

specify any given time, for it is not our wish to hurry you in this matter.
You may even, if it be easier for you, pay us in ten, fifteen, or twenty

instalments; but we will accept no single instalment of less than a million.
Believe us, dear Mr. Hale, when we say that we embark upon this course of

action utterly devoid of animus. We are members of that intellectual
proletariat, the increasing numbers of which mark in red lettering the last

days of the nineteenth century. We have, from a thorough study of economics,
decided to enter upon this business. It has many merits, chief among which may

be noted that we can indulge in large and lucrative operations without
capital. So far, we have been fairly successful, and we hope our dealings with

you may be pleasant and satisfactory.
Pray attend while we explain our views more fully. At the base of the present

system of society is to be found the property right. And this right of the
individual to hold property is demonstrated, in the last analysis, to rest

solely and wholly upon MIGHT. The mailed gentlemen of William the Conqueror
divided and apportioned England amongst themselves with the naked sword. This,

we are sure you will grant, is true of all feudal possessions. With the
invention of steam and the Industrial Revolution there came into existence the

Capitalist Class, in the modern sense of the word. These capitalists quickly
towered above the ancient nobility. The captains of industry have virtually

dispossessed the descendants of the captains of war. Mind, and not muscle,
wins in to-day's struggle for existence. But this state of affairs is none the

less based upon might. The change has been qualitative. The old-time Feudal
Baronage ravaged the world with fire and sword; the modern Money Baronage

exploits the world by mastering and applying the world's economic forces.
Brain, and not brawn, endures; and those best fitted to survive are the

intellectually and commercially powerful.
We, the M. of M., are not content to become wage slaves. The great trusts and

business combinations (with which you have your rating) prevent us from rising
to the place among you which our intellects qualify us to occupy. Why? Because

we are without capital. We are of the unwashed, but with this difference: our
brains are of the best, and we have no foolish ethical nor social scruples. As

wage slaves, toiling early and late, and living abstemiously, we could not
save in threescore years--nor in twenty times threescore years--a sum of money

sufficient successfully to cope with the great aggregations of massed capital
which now exist. Nevertheless, we have entered the arena. We now throw down

the gage to the capital of the world. Whether it wishes to fight or not, it
shall have to fight.

Mr. Hale, our interests dictate us to demand of you twenty millions of
dollars. While we are considerate enough to give you reasonable time in which

to carry out your share of the transaction, please do not delay too long. When
you have agreed to our terms, insert a suitable notice in the agony column of

the "Morning Blazer." We shall then acquaint you with our plan for
transferring the sum mentioned. You had better do this some time prior to

October 1st. If you do not, in order to show that we are in earnest we shall
on that date kill a man on East Thirty-ninth Street. He will be a workingman.

This man you do not know; nor do we. You represent a force in modern society;
we also represent a force--a new force. Without anger or malice, we have

closed in battle. As you will readilydiscern, we are simply a business
proposition. You are the upper, and we the nether, millstone; this man's life

shall be ground out between. You may save him if you agree to our conditions
and act in time.

There was once a king cursed with a golden touch. His name we have taken to do
duty as our official seal. Some day, to protect ourselves against competitors,

we shall copyright it.
We beg to remain,

THE MINIONS OF MIDAS.
I leave it to you, dear John, why should we not have laughed over such a

preposterous communication? The idea, we could not but grant, was well
conceived, but it was too grotesque to be taken seriously. Mr. Hale said he

would preserve it as a literarycuriosity, and shoved it away in a pigeonhole.
Then we promptly forgot its existence. And as promptly, on the 1st of October,

going over the morning mail, we read the following:
OFFICE OF THE M. OF M., October 1, 1899.

MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron:
Dear Sir,--Your victim has met his fate. An hour ago, on East Thirty-ninth

Street, a workingman was thrust through the heart with a knife. Ere you read
this his body will be lying at the Morgue. Go and look upon your handiwork.

On October 14th, in token of our earnestness in this matter, and in case you
do not relent, we shall kill a policeman on or near the corner of Polk Street

and Clermont Avenue.
Very cordially,

THE MINIONS OF MIDAS.
Again Mr. Hale laughed. His mind was full of a prospective deal with a Chicago

syndicate for the sale of all his street railways in that city, and so he went
on dictating to the stenographer, never giving it a second thought. But

somehow, I know not why, a heavy depression fell upon me. What if it were not
a joke, I asked myself, and turned involuntarily to the morning paper. There

it was, as befitted an obscure person of the lower classes, a paltry
half-dozen lines tucked away in a corner, next a patent medicine

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